The Pleasure Is Mine, Mr Holmes
by Samwise221b
Summary: Prequel to "The Woman at His Side". One falls head over heels, the other falls into completely new territory. A series of stories that lead the world's only consulting detective and a historian to develop a surprisingly strong friendship and how they allowed it to grow into something more. Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter 1: With One Look

_With One Look_

Lectures.

Words cannot begin to describe how much I hate writing lectures for the tourists who come through the museum. Seriously, can't people just read the little plaques next to the exhibit? That is what they are there for, after all. Do people just think they're there just for decoration or something?

Ugh, why can't people just use their brains and think?

Extremely annoyed and frustrated with myself, I rub my hands across my face and sigh heavily. I've staring at my blank Word document for almost an hour now, just hopping that some spark of information will come to me. Sadly, there has been no such luck. I redo my high ponytail for about the eighth time, crack my knuckles and set my fingers on the keyboard.

'_Concentrate, Fee, you can do this!' _I tell myself_, 'after all this is what you went to school for, so this should be easy. Okay, Tea Ceremonies…what about them.' _

What's frustrating me the most is the topic: Ancient Chinese Tea Ceremonies. In my freshman year of college I had written a paper on Chinese culture during the Qing dynasty, but that was it. This is lecture is suppose to be on the ancient tea ceremony and its significance to the culture. I don't know anything that about that! I most definitely do not have enough information on it to give an entire presentation.

When is Soo Lin's replacement supposed to get in?

It is beyond depressing what happened to her, but at the same time it was the oddest chain of events. She quit her job last week then was found dead at her old workstation. I guess it all had something to do with that graffiti on one of our prized statues and two similar deaths in London. Its odd to say the least, but also very shaking; I've never seen a dead body before, let alone one that use to be a former collogue.

_Knock. Knock._

"Elfie?" I lift my head up from my work to see my boss, Janice, poking her head into my office, "I hope I'm not interrupting." She has her big ol' museum director of the year, pearl white smile on; damn, she must be here to check on my work.

"Oh, Janice. Hi." I say, trying my best to not look like I'm panicking, "What brings you here?"

"Well, Soo Lin Yao actually." She says

"Oh?"

"Yes, there's a gentlemen here who is looking into the whole matter and, well, he needed to speak to a historian. I told them I would refer them to our best."

"So you chose me?" I ask, a bit taken back, "I'm…I'm flattered."

"May we come in?" she asks

"Of course, by all means, let him in."

I quickly stand and adjust my glasses so that I appear more like an educated historian instead of a disheveled woman trying to reach a dead line. I've never met a British officer before; wonder what he's like? Probably old and clean cut, like one of those people you see on those cop shows, nothing too special.

"Come on in, Ms. Stegerson will be more than happy to help you out," Janice says, popping her head back out to the hall.

"Thank you." Rumbles a baritone voice in reply.

Janice opens my office door all the way and steps aside to let in the most breathtaking man I've ever seen in my life. He's young, mid-thirties maybe, but holds a much older presence. His facial features are extremely distinct; those are possibly the sharpest cheekbones I've ever seen on a man. He's tall, but not weird tall; he doesn't really loom over us shorter folk. His hair is made up of a dark assortment of curls, but it's not at all messy. He is extremely well dressed and that black coat gives him a sort of mysterious quality.

I just stare at him in awe as Janice introduces us: "Elfie Stegerson, this is Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Holmes, meet Elfie Stegerson, our youngest and brightest historian. She specializes in identifying our most obscure artifacts."

"Pleasure," this Mr. Holmes character says, extending his leather gloved hand out to me. I'm completely taken back by this man that it takes me a moment to recognize his gesture; My God, look at those eyes! What kind of color is that? Blue? Green? Blue-green?

"Elfie?" Janice asks, "you okay?"

"Huh? Oh yes, sorry. Hello." I quickly take his hand and shake it awkwardly. Even his grip is interesting: firm but not crushing.

"Well, I'll let you two work then." Janice says, exiting, "Come and find me if you have any further questions, Mr. Holmes." He doesn't acknowledge her; he just stares blankly at me.

"American," Mr. Holmes says, raising an eyebrow, "Southern California by the sounds of it: Los Angeles County?"

"Orange, actually." I correct, "but I'm impressed. How did you know?"

"The way you say the words 'huh' and 'oh'. It's very common in that region." He replies in a monotone; his voice is so smooth and deep. It's kind of comforting and at the same time very sexy.

"You know a lot about Southern California than?" I ask, trying to be flirtatious.

"I know a lot about everything." He says rather matter of factly.

Okay, so he's attractive, but cocky. Eh, not everyone's perfect.

"Is-is that so." I say, a bit taken back, "Well then, what do you need me for?"

"Beg pardon?" he asks, furrowing his brow.

"Well, I mean, uh, if you know so much about everything, why do you need a historian?" I stammer, "Not that I'm doubting your knowledge or intellect or anything. You seem like a very smart individual. I'm just saying…uh…never mind."

Well, now I feel like a complete idiot.

To my surprise, Mr. Holmes chuckles and gives me a sort of half-mouth smirk; "No need to apologize, Ms. Stegerson," he says, "I get that response a lot."

I chuckle slightly in reply. Suddenly, his face changes from relaxed to serious. His eyes lock with mine and I instantly feel like he's gazing right into my soul. Is he…reading me? It feels like those eyes are piercing through me, exposing my entire life story. Is that even possible?

"You don't need those," he says, his voice suddenly low and much less proud.

"Sorry, what don't I need?" I ask, completely lost in his gaze.

"Glasses," he goes on, "you don't need them to see properly. Your vision is perfectly fine, but you tend to suffer from rather painful eyestrain. You've been working at your computer for an hour and a half, or rather just been staring at the screen, trying your best to finish off the lecture that should have been finished yesterday."

"How could you have known that?" I sigh, completely impressed with his seemingly psychic ability.

"I noticed," he says, "There's a blank document pulled up on your screen, miscellaneous books and papers strewn about your desk: clear signs of someone who is busily working to reach a deadline." His face then relaxes again and the smirk returns; "You should remove those glasses," he goes on, less like he's reciting a monologue, "they don't complement your exquisite facial features that well, but more importantly they are blocking the shine of your emerald eyes."

My cheeks immediately turn a bright shade of pink and a small schoolgirl giggle escapes my mouth.

'_Exquisite facial features'_? _'…Shine of your emerald eyes'_? Is he…flirting with me?

Mr. Holmes' expression instantly changes to a worried one and he gazes down at his feet. "Forgive me," he says, a bit ashamed, "I, um, my words got ahead of me."

"No, no, it's fine." I reply, "I, um, find it very…flattering. Thank you."

Surprised, Mr. Holmes' eyes return to lock with mine; "Oh, um, your welcome," he says, "Yes, very welcome."

Time seems to stop.

My heart is racing and I feel unnaturally giddy.

Nobody's ever made me feel like this before: Good lord, who is this guy?

"Sherlock! You left me to pay off the cabbie, clot." a voice interrupts, bringing us both back to Earth. Suddenly, we notice that our hands are still intertwined: no longer in a firm handshake, but rather just a casual hold. We quickly separate them: He puts both his hands behind his back and I return mine to my side.

"This is my, um, doctor-no, er-my John-No, um…This is Dr. John Watson," Mr. Holmes stutters, stepping aside to reveal a short, rather flustered at the moment gentleman, who has just walked into my office.

_His_ John? Oh, God, don't tell me his gay.

"I'm a collogue." Dr. Watson says, extending a hand out to me, "Please to meet you, Miss."

Collogue. Phew, okay.

"Please to meet you as well." I say, quickly shaking his hand, "And by all means, call me Elfie. Both of you." I through a quick glance at Mr. Holmes but he has turned his back to me and is wondering about my office. "Please, have a seat." I offer both Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes chairs, but only the doctor takes one. Mr. Holmes continues to examine all of the small knick-knacks adorning my shelves.

Okay, flip-flops between moods in the blink of an eye. It's odd, however, not a complete turn off.

"Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?" I ask, returning to my desk, "Janice said that it had something to do with Soo Lin Yao?"

"Yes," Dr. Watson says, "we're-well, Sherlock's investigating the matter."

"So, you're a detective?" I ask, turning my gaze to Mr. Holmes.

"A consulting detective, yes." he replies, still not looking at me,

"What does that mean?" I inquire. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Dr. Watson rolls his eyes in a sort of 'oh-god-not-this-again' matter and rub the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

"I invented the job, but I can assure you that I'm perfectly qualified to investigate this case." Mr. Holmes replies, picking up my framed _RMS Titanic_ boarding pass and examining it, "A first class ticket; this is rare. How did you come by it?"

"Uh, perks of working at a museum." I reply, tensing up, "Can you put that back please? It's very delicate." Mr. Holmes looks at me then smirks as he places the item back on its appropriate shelf. Ah, now he's back to being charming.

"Tell me, Ms. Stegerson," he says, taking a seat next to Dr. Watson, "How much do you know about Chinese monarchy?"

"In what sense?" I ask.

"Every sense," he shoots back, "Families, cultural, trade: Tell me everything you know."

"Well, I can tell you what I can, but I warn you, I'm no expert. Soo Lin was head of that department." I explain.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll do fine," Mr. Holmes says in a comforting way, "You wouldn't have reached this position if you didn't know your facts. Obviously, you know more than myself, or else I wouldn't be sitting here. So please, enlighten me, if you wouldn't mind." Dr. Watson looks at him in a shocked and confused sort of way. This sort of behavior must be out of the ordinary for Mr. Holmes, then.

Sitting up straight, I clear my throat and begin to list off all of the information I've ever learned about ancient Chinese monarchies. Dr. Watson is listening intently, but I feel like Mr. Holmes is more focused on my face then the words I'm saying. He has placed his hands under his chin in a prayer position and has narrowed his eyes in deep thought. I feel like he's taking in every aspect of my face: every pore, the tint of my lips, the amount of make-up I put on, the space between my eyes, everything. It's like he's trying to memorize me. His gaze is a bit distracting and I keep loosing my train of thought every time I glance over at him. It's those eyes; so different, so beautiful.

"And that's when the empire became a dictatorship," I say, finishing what felt like an hour long speech, "is that all you need, Mr. Holmes?" He doesn't respond. He just pulls his phone out of his coat pocket and starts to focus on finding something on it.

Dr. Watson glances at his flat mate in awe of his rudeness and then at me, apologetically. "Um, yes, I think we're done." He speaks on behalf of Mr. Holmes, "Thank you very-"

"Tell me where this is from." Mr. Holmes suddenly interrupts, practically shoving his phone in my face. I readjust my glasses and place my hand on the phone, grazing Mr. Holmes fingers.

"Um, it's a hairpin." I say, thinking out loud, "Jade, old but not completely ancient, Ming dynasty maybe. It looks specially made so it most likely belonged to an empress or princess."

"Or maybe someone of great wealth?" Dr. Watson asks.

"I doubt it," I say, "this cut and design is far too intricate to be a random trinket of a rich persons."

"How much would it be worth today?" Mr. Holmes asks in a determined whisper.

"Gee, um, quiet a lot." I reply, "Based on its rarity, the style and the jade, I would say…9 million."

"9 million pounds?" Dr. Watson exclaims, going slightly pale.

"To say the least," I say with a nod, "you don't find royal Chinese hairpins laying about. Like I said, this isn't just some trinket."

Mr. Holmes smiles at me, then quickly stands up. He stuffs his phone back in his pocket then extends his hand to me. I quickly rise and shake it. Much to my surprise, but not my displeasure, Mr. Holmes smoothly moves his fingers to gently press against my wrist. He looks into my eyes for a moment then smirks. I give him a small smile in return; why does it feel warm all of a sudden?

"Well done, Ms. Stegerson," he says, "You've just helped stop a Chinese smuggling gang from brutally murdering Dr. Watson and myself." And with that, this mysterious man turns on heel and exits my office in a flush.

"Yes, um, well, thanks so much," Dr. Watson stammers, shaking my still out stretched hand before running after his flat mate and closing the door behind him.

Feeling a bit out of breath, I fall back into my chair and run a hand through my hair. What the hell just happened? Who was that guy? Why is my head spinning? I try to collect my thoughts and return to work but I can't get the image of him out of my head: his sea foam eyes, those sharp cheekbones, that voluptuous voice.

That man: Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.

'_Elfie Marie Stegerson, I think you may have just fallen in love.'_ I admit to myself, but I just shake my head. We had only spoken for a moment, how could I be in love? It's a crush, a stupid, elementary crush. It's nothing. But then there is the way he looked at me…nobody has ever looked at me that way before. His hand did hold onto mine for quite some time, as well. Did he feel something too? No, stop. It's stupid. Get back to work. Besides, it's not like I'm ever going to see him again. Why would I? It was just a moment, a fleeting, but oh so memorable moment.

/

A few days later, I enter the museum in a hurry. I'm running late and I have a presentation on the Tudor family history in 30 minutes. Stupid tube schedule; this way I hate public transportation. I really should look into getting an English drivers license.

"Oh, Fee!" Janice calls out, catching me a bit off guard, "Glad you were able to make it in. You have a visitor."  
I freeze, mid-step, and turn on my heel to face her. "Sorry, what?" I ask, "A visitor?"

"Yes, he's waiting in your office." She says.

"He?"

"Yes, the investigator from Monday; Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He said it was very important he saw you."

I blush and almost drop my things; Mr. Holmes came back to see me? Oh, this can't be true. "Thank you," I reply, walking as fast as I can to my office. My heart is racing and I have butterflies. _'Ugh, stop it, Elfie! You're acting like a schoolgirl. You're a grown woman, you shouldn't be acting like this about a man.'_

Sure enough, as I reach my office door, there is the consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, leaning against the wall beside my door and fiddling with a small package in his hands. I gulp down my nerves and slowly walk up to greet him. He lifts his head at the sound of my approaching footsteps and smiles.

Oh God, he's so charming.

"Mr. Holmes," I say, extending my hand, "what a nice surprise to see you again."

"And you, Ms. Stegerson," he replies, shaking my hand, "Do you have a moment?"

"I have a presentation in half an hour, but I have time for you." I reply, but instantly regret it. _'I have time for you'_? Way to be subtle, Fee, way to be subtle.

I open my office door and let Mr. Holmes inside. He glides right in and returns to fiddling with his package again.

"I won't keep you," he says, "but I just wanted to stop by and tell you how the case ended up."

"Oh, yes," I say, setting myself down on my desk, "Get everything sorted out with that Chinese smuggling gang, did you?" Mr. Holmes blushes and lets out a deep, baritone chuckle. Wait, I made him blush?

"Yes, well, that was just a small misunderstanding, you could say." He says, finally looking at me.

"Oh, yes, I understand," I reply sarcastically.

"Do you?" he asks, seeming genuinely interested if I was.

"No, not at all." I quickly correct, "I was being sarcastic."

"Ah," he says, "Sarcasm. Something I have yet to fully understand." I look at him a bit confused, but he doesn't acknowledge it.

"So, I, um, found your website." I say, trying to break the awkward silence.

"Did you?" he asks, pacing in front of me, "You looked me up?"

"Well, when you put it that way, it sounds creepy." I say, now feeling embarrassed, "I just thought what with you being a detective, maybe you'd have some sort of profile. It was really interesting: 'The Science of Deduction'. Can you really describe someone just with one look?"

"I figured out you didn't need glasses with one look didn't I?" he replies with a smirk. He stops pacing for moment as we exchange a glance, but then suddenly picks it up again; "Anyway, I wanted to let you know that the information you gave me was most helpful," he says, "Turns out that jade hairpin was the key to this whole mess." He then stops directly in front of me and softly, gazes into my eyes. I feel my breath go short and my cheeks turn pink. Those eyes are absolutely amazing.

"I'm glad I could help," I manage to breathe out with a sigh.

Mr. Holmes' expression becomes child like as he looks down at his shoes; "I, um, wanted to, uh, give you this." He says, handing me the package, "It's a sort of, thank you gift. That's what people do, don't they? Give gifts to show how grateful they are."

"Um, yes, sometimes." I say, taken back by his unexpected sweetness, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes." I take the package and gently unwrap the brown packaging. I immediately take in a sharp breath of shock at what this package was. "Is…is this really?"

"The 1892 diary of Joseph Bruce Ismay, yes." Mr. Holmes proudly confirms for me, " You seem to have a keen interest the Titanic tragedy so I thought it would be a suitable gift. I acquired it from a source in the British government. It was a tough argument, but I eventually convinced him that it would be safe in your hands."

"Oh my God," I exasperate, taking the diary and gingerly turning the pages, "This…this is amazing! Thank you so much!" I look up into Mr. Holmes' eyes and use all my will power to not jump into his arms and embrace him. "Thank you." I say again, "Honestly, I'm truly at a loss for words. Thank you."

"You are quiet welcome," he replies, extending his hand to me, "You are a bright woman, Ms. Stegerson. You truly…amaze me. I hope to we will have the opportunity to work together again."

Blushing even redder now, I take his hand into mine and shake it; "As do I, Mr. Holmes. As do I."

We lock eyes and just gaze at each other for what feels like an eternity. There seems to be an unspoken something between us. I'm not sure what it is, and to be quiet honest, I don't he does ether. It's no matter though; what matters is that I have made a sort of partnership with Mr. Holmes. That's got to count for something right?

"You said you had a presentation," he says, softly.

"Oh, damn! I do!" I exclaim, quickly removing my hand from his. "I have to get ready." I delicately place my new treasure beside my framed boarding pass then snatch up a black folder from the top of my filing cabinet; "Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Holmes, truly." I say, heading out the door.

"May I join you?" comes Mr. Holmes reply that nearly knocks me over with surprise. I turn around to face him. With a smile, he walks up to me and stuffs his hands in his pockets; "I would very much like to hear you speak," he says, "if you don't mind."

"Of course," I say, my heart pounding in excitement, "It would be my pleasure to have you there." He nods and we walk, in step with one another, chatting away as if we had known each other for years.

He's a mystery, this Sherlock Holmes, but something about him feels right; a hundred percent, absolutely right.

_**Hello reader(s)!**_

_**This is just a small series I wanted to put together to sort of explain where these two are by the time of 'The Woman at His Side'. Yes, the cover picture is of Sherlock and Irene but I wanted the picture because Elfie is suppose to look a tad bit like her-a detail I hope to bring up in this series.**_

_**If you have any suggestions of what you might want to hear, please let me know. I do have specific stories I want to tell, but suggestions are welcome.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	2. Chapter 2: Walking in the Air

_Walking in the Air_

"Goodnight, Elfie."

"G'night! See you Monday."

I adjust the strap of my satchel across my chest, place my brown newsboy hat on my head and step out into the cold, London night. Taking in a deep breath, I look up at the sky; tonight is one of those rare nights where you can see the stars twinkling up above. It's a peaceful kind of thing, seeing the stars. I don't know why it makes me feel that way. Maybe it's because they remind me of how small I am in this big ol' universe or maybe I'm just a hopeless romantic. Either way, I just like looking at the stars.

Satisfied with my intake of the sky, I smile and head down the steps to the sidewalk. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a dark figure is sitting on the last step; their legs pulled in close to their chest and their forehead is resting on their knees. Cautiously, I freeze a few steps above the figure and gulp down my nerves.

"Do-do you need me to call you a cab?" I ask.

The figure lift's its head but doesn't turn to face me; "Not unless you want to get rid of me," it says and I immediately relax; I'd recognize that voice anywhere.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. You frightened me." I say with a chuckle

"Didn't mean too," he replies, standing up right and dusting off his black slacks, "and, Ms. Stegerson, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Sherlock?"

"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Elfie?" I shoot back with a smirk. He chuckles in return and holds his hand out to me.

"Always a pleasure to see you…Elfie." He says with a half mouth smile.

"As is it to see you…Sherlock." I reply, shaking his hand. His fingers gently press against my wrist as our hands linger in each other's hold for a moment too long. Our eyes lock, but then we both quickly look away. Both our cheeks are pink. Must be the cold.

"Care for an escort to the tube?" he asks, stuffing his hand in his pocket, "It's, um, not safe for you to walk alone at night."

"I'd be delighted." I reply, blushing even pinker.

"Good. Come on then." Sherlock motions his head to the sidewalk and we walk in step of each other down the street, babbling away about our work.

It's been nearly a month and a half since we first met and surprisingly, Mr. Holmes and I have become close. True, not close in the sense that I secretly want us to be, but it's safe to say we've become very, very good friends. A week or so after giving me the Ismay diary, Sherlock came back to my office and asked me to identify this emerald bracelet he had found on a body. A week after that, he came back and asked me to recite all of my knowledge on Henry the fifth. A week after that…Well, to make it short, Sherlock's visits became part of my weekly routine.

Sometimes, Dr. Watson-who I've also become good friends with- would accompany him but most of the time he came by himself. It would be around noon, just before my lunch break. Sherlock would escort himself to my office door; politely knock then enter with or without my hearsay. I didn't mind, though. I enjoyed his company.

After I had completed whatever task he had asked of me, Sherlock would strike up a regular conversation that would lead to us discussing our interests for God knows how long. We talked hobbies (mine: reading. His: dissecting body parts) outside interests, things like that. It was like we've known each other for ages; that we were always meant to be friends.

To be cliché, we just clicked.

"Sherlock, where's your coat?" I ask, noticing that his signature black coat and blue scarf are missing form his person.

"Left it at home," he says with a shrug, "I was in a rush."

"What to meet me on the steps?" I ask in disbelief.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but no." He says with a laugh, "I had a…previous engagement. I've just come from there."

"I see. Well, if you wake up with a cold tomorrow morning, don't come crying to me." I say, playfully nudging his shoulder, "You need to wrap up in this kind of weather."

"I'm fine." He replies, "Besides, I'm much more use to this cold then you are. You have no need to worry about my health, Elfie. John already does enough of that."

"Oh." I say with a nod then quickly look down at my feet: I'm still trying to figure out what's going on between those two. Dr. Watson, or John as he much rather be called, came home from Afghanistan not too long ago and was looking for a flat share. He found Sherlock and that was that. They are unbelievably close, like they've been friends since the dawn of time. It makes me wonder, though: are they more than just friends?

"No." Sherlock says with a chuckle.

"Sorry?" I ask, looking at him confused, "No what?"

"No, John is not my boyfriend." He replies, giving me a half mouth smirk. My cheeks flush a bright red and I nervously bite my lower lip: Okay, seriously, he has to be psychic.

"I-I didn't say that he was." I stutter, "I mean, not that it matters or anything. I don't care. You can love whomever you want. That is, if you love men in that way… or anyone really. I don't care. I, uh, I'm…I'm going to stop talking now."

Well done, Elfie: such a way with words.

To my surprise (and relief) Sherlock lets out a deep baritone laugh; "Thanks for the approval," he says, "but I can assure you that men aren't really my area. To be quiet honest, relationships in general aren't really my area."

"Oh," I say, looking at him, "so you don't have someone? Romantically, I mean."

Sherlock scrunches up his face in distaste and shakes his head. "Dull," he replies, "I don't have time for that sort of thing. There is just my work and I; everything else is distracting. Surely you must understand that."

"Oh I do," I lie, "Your work is very important to you. That's very clear."

Sherlock furrows his brow slightly and it seems that he's studying my face. He does this a lot, I've noticed. He has moments where he completely leaves this world mentally and just stares in silence. It's weird, but at the same time fascinating. How does a brain like his work? How does someone pick up all the miniscule details of everyday life and piece together a solution in no time flat? It's genius!

"It upsets you." He says quite plainly.

"What does?"

"The fact that I consider myself wholly committed to my work."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

I bite my lower lip and nervously kick up some gravel with my shoes; He's right, of course. How is he always right?

"Why does it upset you?" he asks, genuinely curious as to what my answer might be.

"Well, I don't…I mean it's none of my business, but…" Struggling to find the right thing to say, I look up into his eyes; they truly are one of a kind. "I think your limiting yourself," I say, "Any woman would be lucky to have you."

Sherlock chuckles and rolls his eyes: "You flatter me." He says

"No, no, I'm serious." I go on, "You're one of a kind, Sherlock and…and I think you'd make someone very happy if you considered giving a relationship a try. Besides, there must be someone you have your eye on."

"What would make you say that?" he asks, getting a bit defensive.

"I don't know," I shrug, looking up at the sky, "but…I'm sorry, I'm overstepping my bounds here. I have no right to comment on your personal life."

"No, you're not overstepping anything," Sherlock quickly replies, "Your opinion matters to me."

"Really?" I ask, a bit taken back.

"Of course. You're-you're my friend."

Hearing the nervousness and childlike quality to his voice, I look back at him. He's staring right into my eyes with a sort of sad, puppy dog kind of look; that's unexpected from a guy like him.

"I-I don't have a lot of those, you know. Friends I mean." He goes on, a tad bit embarrassed. Wait, Sherlock Holmes is embarrassed?

"Neither do I," I say, trying my best to be comforting, "I mean, I'm from a completely different country. It's hard to find people I can relate to here."

"There's no one I can relate to here." He says, "Well, except...maybe you."

"Really?" I ask with a smile

"Of course. If you haven't noticed, I hold you…I hold you in very high regard." He says, smiling back. Our eyes meet again and my heart practically jumps out of chest. That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. How can I reply to that? Yes, I want to tell Sherlock that I think he's brilliant and gorgeous and I'd be more than happy to be in a relationship with him, but that would be too much.

"I hold you in high regard as well, Sherlock." I decide to go with, "Truly."

He chuckles slightly, then turns his head to look up at the stars: "Beautiful night, isn't it?" he asks.

"Yeah, it is." I reply, still keeping my eyes on that gorgeous, distinct face of his.

It's silent between us: awkwardly silent.

"You, um, you didn't say, why were you waiting for me on the steps?" I say, trying my best to spark up conversation again.

"Ah, yes, of course! I came to tell you that you were right." he exclaims, getting rather excited, "The Vermeer painting that we were discussing the other day, do you remember?"

"Yes, what of it?"

"It was a fake."

"I knew it!" I exclaim, "You see, I told you that there was no way possible that painting could have just turned up out of the blue. How'd you figure it out?"

"By looking at the details," he says, "The supernova in the upper corner of the painting shouldn't have been there because…"

"Because there was no supernova at the time the painting was made." I finish for him.

"Correct," he says, with a proud smirk, "How did you…"

"I'm a historian Sherlock," I say with a hint of bragging, "I read about all major events. I think I'd know if a supernova occurred around the time Vermeer was painting."

Sherlock chuckles slightly and nods; "Clever girl," he says, under his breath but loud enough for me to hear it.

"Not as clever as you." I say, playfully nudging his arm, "Now go on, tell me what happened."

"Everything fell into play after that," he goes on, "Once I established that the painting was a fraud, Lestrade was able to save the little boy's…" His face becomes very stern all of a sudden and he presses his lips together tightly.

"What little boy?" I ask, but he doesn't reply. Worried, I place a comforting hand on his hand. Sherlock shutters at my touch and I quickly pull away. "I'm sorry." I say, sheepishly, "I didn't mean…"

"No, no, it's…it's fine." He says, taking my hand into his, "I don't mind it. I…I'm assuming you were trying to comfort me?"

"You look like you needed it." I reply.

"You're more right then you know," he sighs.

"Why? Has something happened?"

"Yes…a lot has happened." Sherlock looks up at the sky again and gently intertwines his fingers in mine. Is he…is he holding my hand? Really? This is happening? Good God, I feel like I'm a schoolgirl who has just had her first interaction with her crush. Get it together, Fee, you're an adult.

"Elfie," he says in a low voice, "can…can you keep a secret?"

"Um, sure. What is it?" I ask, staring at our intertwined hands.

"I've made a rather dangerous enemy." He explains, still looking ahead, "In my line of work, that's not entirely uncommon. However, this…man, he's different. He's smart, Elfie, smarter than anyone I've ever come across. He calls himself, Jim Moriarty." He quickly turns his face to me; his expression is a mixture of worry and deep thought: "You haven't met him have you?"

"No, never heard of him." I say,

"Good, and I hope you never have to," he says, looking back at the sky, "He's a spider, Elfie: he has connections in every criminal organization. We've been close to crossing paths, before but always just missed each other."

"Oh god," I breathe out, "that's…unnerving."

"Until tonight that is: I've finally met him. My match." He goes on, "Before coming here, I had my confrontation with this consulting criminal."

"Consulting criminal?"

"That's what he does; criminals from all walks of life come to Moriarty for…assistance."

"Like how you help people," I say, thinking aloud, "You consult the police, he consults…." I stop when I see a look of hurt in Sherlock's eye. "Oh, Sherlock, I didn't mean to upset you." I apologize, "You're nothing like this guy."

"The problem is, I think I might be." He says, half to himself. I watch his expression become cold and stone. He's thinking again, so deep in that brain of his. I tighten my hold on his hand, and to my surprise he squeezes in return. "I almost died this evening." He whispers, "I put myself, and John, in danger and it almost cost us our lives."

"What?" I exclaim, freezing mid-step, "Oh my god, what the hell happened? Are you…do we need to call the police?"

"That's unnecessary," he plainly states, "I can handle this."

"Handle it? Handle what? What has this Moriarty done?"

"Leave it alone, Elfie," He mumbles starting to walk forward again, "It's nothing."

Tightening my hold on his hand, I quickly pull Sherlock back so that we are face to face. His six-foot figure hovers over my 5'2", looking down at me with a stern face.

"Sherlock, this is serious," I say, unphased by his concern, "If this Moriarty character is a threat, the police should know about it."

"They will, in good time." He says, "Just…let me do my job. Why are you so concerned?"

"Because, as you stated earlier, I'm your friend." I say rather matter of factly, "I care about you." Sherlock suddenly lightens his expression as he stares blankly at me. He blinks his eyes multiple times as if he was fully processing what I had just said.

"You…care about me?" He asks

"Yes, of course." I say, but then I feel rather embarrassed. Did he interpret that the wrong way? Does he think I'm confessing something? "That's what friends do, they care about each other." I say just to be safe.

Sherlock lets out a deep sigh and runs his free hand through his dark, mop of curls. "No one's ever said that to me before." He states with a twinge of hurt in his voice.

"Well…its true." I reply, unsure of what to say to that, "I care about your safety and health and…stuff like that."

Once again, I have such a way with words.

"Elfie, listen to me." He says, closing his eyes and taking my other hand into his, "I…I need you to understand something. My job, my life, is very dangerous. I take risks everyday, some a bit more deadly than others. That's my choice, though. I have chosen to be a part of solving crimes and I am willingly putting my life on the line. Moriarty has made himself known to me as well as his intentions to...burn me."

"Burn you? What does that even mean?"

"Please you must understand this," he says, gently cupping my face in his hands, "if you continue keep in contact with me, you must be prepared for the dangers I face. Who knows what Moriarty has in store for me; caring for me will only result in unnecessary concern."

"I don't…I don't understand." I say, a bit taken back, "Do you not want me to care about you? I thought you wanted me to be your friend."

"Yes, of course I do. But I don't want to hurt you," He says rather quickly, "Caring for me will lead to hurt and I could never see you go through that because I care about you more than anything…" he suddenly stops and looks away in shame. His hands slip away form my face and Sherlock steps back. I stare him in a slight state of shock; did he just confess something to me? That he actually cares about something more than work...And that something is I?

"Forgive me," he says, "I…I got ahead of myself. Forget what I said, all of it. I'm just rambling." Cautiously, I step forward and wrap my arms around him in a hug. Sherlock tenses up at first, but then takes in a deep breath and hugs me back.

Perhaps, he just said that because he's been through a lot this evening. I don't know what this Moriarty guy said or did to make Sherlock so upset, but right now, that's not important. Right now, Sherlock just needs me to be there for him: he doesn't need to say so. I just know it.

After a few moments, we lift our heads and look into each other's eyes; he seems tired and stressed, like this evenings other events are starting to take a toll on him.

"You know if you ever need to talk, I'm here." I say, "I'll listen to whatever you want."

"Is that what friends do? Talk?" he asks, "John always wants to talk."

"Well, that's probably because John cares about you, just like I do."

Sherlock smiles slightly and nods. There's a spark in his eyes, one that I've never seen before. It's very…comforting.

"Shall we keep walking?" He asks in his normal tone, "It's getting late."

"Yeah, sure." I say, and we return to walking toward the tube station. This Moriarty topic is dropped as quickly as it came up, but I have a feeling this isn't going to be last night I here that name.

What on Earth did Sherlock mean by "burn"?

The wind has picked up, but Sherlock doesn't seem affected by it. I however am practically shaking in my boots. I wrap my arms around my self, tightly, which causes Sherlock to laugh.

"What? What's so funny?" I ask. To my surprise, Sherlock wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in so that my body is pressed against his side.

"You weren't meant for cold weather." He says, rubbing his hands up and down my arms to warm me up. I can't formulate a reply; I'm too excited at the fact that he's touching me. Taking this as my opportune moment, I rest my head on Sherlock's shoulder and slowly wrap an arm around his waist. Is it too much? God, I hope not.

To my delight, Sherlock doesn't protest to my motion: "Elfie, what are you doing tomorrow?" Sherlock asks, resting his head atop my own.

"Um, nothing it's my day off." I reply, secretly hoping that he's going to ask me to dinner, "What's up?"

"I'm going to pick up some specimens at St. Bart's and was wondering if you'd like to come along? I need someone to help me with this experiment and John will be out of town. That is if it's not an inconvenience to you."

Specimens and experiments: It's not dinner, but I'll take it.

"It would be my pleasure." I reply, "When should I meet you?"

"Meet me at my place at 9am." He says, "221b Baker Street. Bring a notebook and a pen, I'll need you to take notes."

"Alright, professor. Do I need to be prepared to take a test too?"

"…Was that a joke?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Oh…okay."

We round our last corner together and slowly pull our bodies apart. The tube station is right there and Sherlock's home is completely the other direction. It would be pointless in asking him to walk we the few extra steps.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow then." He says, holding his hand out to me.

"Sherlock," I say with a laugh, "I think we've moved past cordial handshakes, don't you?" He blushes and lets out a small chuckle.

"Oh, well, then…okay." He says, "What then do I do?"

"I don't know. Whatever you want, I guess." I reply with a chuckle; he's so adorable when he's confused. It rarely happens, but I like it.

"Alright then," he says, clearing his throat. Nervously, Sherlock leans in close and places a soft kiss on my cheek. "Goodnight, Elfie Stegerson." He whispers in my ear.

My heart is racing and I feel like I could fly.

He kissed me! Not on the lips, but he still kissed me!

I gulp down my giddy emotions and take in a sharp breath: "Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes." I reply. We lock eyes again for a short moment and for the first time, it seems like something is between us: Something that goes beyond friendship: something that is much, much stronger. Maybe my hopeless crush is stronger than I thought. Maybe he feels the same way.

"You'll miss your train." He whispers.

"Right. I'll…I'll see you tomorrow." I say, placing a quick kiss on his cheek and heading down the steps the tube. _'He doesn't feel that way about me,'_ I decide, _'He just sees me as a friend. Don't get your hopes up, Fee.'_

Before completely heading all the way down, I look over my shoulder and watch as Sherlock walks toward his direction home, gently rubbing the spot where I kissed him as if to make sure that it's real.

Maybe he does feel something.

_**Hello!  
I wanted this to just be a filler chapter so sorry if it's a bit rough. I have specific storyline I want to follow in the next couple chapters involving a certain dominatrix so stay tuned. **____** Once again, if you have ideas, let me know!**_

_**Thanks for the comments and follows and favorites! They are always appreciated.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	3. Chapter 3: What I Did For Love-Part I

_What I Did For Love-Part 1_

" '_She dropped her head again on Marius' knees, and her eyelids closed. He thought the poor soul had departed. Eponine remained motionless. All at once, at the very moment when Marius fancied her asleep forever, she slowly opened her eyes in which appeared the sombre profundity of death, and said to him in a tone whose sweetness seemed already to proceed from another world:-_

'And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in love with you.'"

_Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!  
_

Dog-earing the top of the page I'm on, I slam my book shut and glance over at the phone vibrating away on the coffee table. It's my day off and I have the apartment to myself. My plan was to finish this brick sized book then have a glass of wine and watch Russel Crowe movies until way late. My roommate, Hattie, is at her boyfriend's for the weekends, so who else could be texting me?

_Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!_

Annoyed with the sound it was making against the glass tabletop, I pick up my phone and unlock it:

'_Hey Elfie! It's John Watson. –JW'_

'_Need your help-JW'_

_'Hey John! What's up? –ES' _I reply back, becoming more interested; I enjoy John's phone calls and texts. It usually means Sherlock wants my help with something. Why Sherlock couldn't call me himself I'll never know. Perhaps he's just too lazy. I don't mind though; John is a wonderful man and a devoted friend. He's sort of become a brother to me, really: very protective and very sweet.

_'Are you at work? –JW'_

_ 'No, it's my day off. Why? What's up? You're not going to drag me to some crime scene again are you? –ES'_

_ 'No, nothing like that, it's Sherlock-JW'_

'_Is he hurt? –ES'_

_ 'No, he's gotten himself drugged. I've got to get him home, but I can't carry him up the stairs. Is there anyway you can get to our flat? –JW'_

Baffled, I stare at that last text and let it process through my brain. Sherlock drugged? What?

'_I can grab a taxi. I'll be there in 10-ES'_

_ 'Thanks Fee-JW'_

_ 'Of course-ES'_  
I hang up and immediately sprint to my bedroom. I slip on a random pair of shoes, throw on my grey sweater and snatch up my satchel. _'Drugged? How does someone get drugged?'_ I ask myself, _'was he on a case? An experiment gone wrong maybe?'_ Snatching my apartment key, I shut off the lights and bolt out of the door. My long dark, wavy hair hangs down to my shoulders and I'm dressed in my grey sweat suit; I would attempt to make myself presentable when going over to John and Sherlock's place, but there was a sense of urgency in John's voice. _'No time to get all dolled up for your crush, Fee.'_

After a ten minute cab ride, I arrive at 221b Baker Street. A black police car is pulled up outside the door and I immediately spot John. I quickly run over to help: "John!"

"Oh, Elfie, thank god." The doctor replies, sighing in relief, "Just in time. Help me get him out of the car."

John opens the back car door and I quickly look inside. Sherlock on his back, sprawled out across the seat, his head rolling from side to side and he's mumbling incoherently to himself. He looks like a sleepy child, fighting off tiredness with every ounce of their body.

"Sherlock?" I ask, placing a cautious hand on his shoulder, "Can you hear me?" Sherlock lifts his head slightly and looks at me with half opened eyes; I can see the feverish glaze fogging up his normally bright gaze. He furrows his brow in confusion and slowly lifts a shaking hand to my face.

"…You…" he sighs, grazing his fingers across my jaw line as if to see if I'm really real, "took…my…coat."

"What?" I ask, worried that whatever drug he's on may have affected that brilliant brain of his.

"Mmph coat…" he groans, "you…naked…"

"Sherlock, listen to me," John asks, leaning in beside me, "It's Fee, she's going to help me carry you up the stairs." but Sherlock doesn't hear him. He just slips into unconsciousness, dropping his hand from my cheek to hang limply at his side. My heart aches to see him like this not just because he's my crush, but also because he's my friend. I'm worried about him. But he's going to be fine, right?

"Grab his arm," John instructs and I gladly do so. We manage to pull the limp detective out of the car and in a standing position. I wrap an arm around Sherlock's waist and pull his arm over my shoulders so that all of his dead weight can lean against me. His head hangs low and rolls to rest on my shoulder. Wither it's a subconscious move or not, Sherlock gently nuzzles his head into the space between my shoulder blade and neck; His soft curls brushing against my neck.

"The woman." He moans in his sleep, "the woman." I stare at him in utter confusion: What the hell was he given?

"John, are you sure you don't want me to drive to the hospital?" the policeman driving the car asks.

"No, no, I can take care of him here." John replies, "Thanks Greg." The officer nods and drives off. John quickly runs up and unlocks the front door. "Right, lets get him up stairs," he says, turning back to me, "Think you can manage?" I give him an affirmative nod and adjust my hold on Sherlock.

"Travel…" he grumbles, as John tosses his other arm over his shoulders, "The hiker…"

"Yes, Sherlock, the hiker. He's dead in a field. Now come on." John says, sounding very much like a military captain. He never uses that tone of voice normally. Must only come out when he goes into doctor mode like this.

"Hiker?" I ask,

"I'll tell you about once we get him situated." John grunts, "You sure you got him?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Good. Once we're inside, lean him against the wall. I'll run up the stairs and clear a path to his bedroom. Ready?"

Balancing Sherlock's weight between us, John and I manage to drag him inside the building and set him down in a sitting position on the bottom of the stairs with his back against the wall. I sit down beside him and place a comforting hand on his forehead. It's warm, but not feverously. Good, so at least he's not sick, just incoherent.

"Right, keep him talking if he starts to mumble again," John instructs as he ascends the stairs, "He needs to be awake until I can get him in a bed."

As if on cue, Sherlock lets out a soft moan then rolls his head upright to face me. He blinks his eyes open about halfway and furrows his brow at me again as if he's in denial that I'm really sitting beside him.

"Sherlock," I say as softly as I can, "it's me. It's…"

"I…know," he groans, slurring his words, "the…woman." I look at him, utterly confused. The woman? What is that suppose to mean? John said I had to keep him awake so that's what I'll do.

"Tell me about the hiker." I say, gently pushing some of his curls out of his eyes, "What happened?"

"…Tell…me." Sherlock mumbles, beginning to close his eyes again, "th-the car…backfired. Then…boomerang."

"Boomerang?" I ask, "The hiker had a boomerang?"

Sherlock nods his heavy head then slumps to the side, unable to keep his body upright any longer. I hold up my hands up in shock as he lands on top of me, his head nuzzled under my chin. I sit there completely dumbfounded; what am I suppose to do?

"Hiker…car…boomerang." Sherlock grumbles, "Phone…please."

"You…you want your phone?" I ask, trying to keep this obscure conversation going, "Okay, then." I reach into his jacket pocket but Sherlock suddenly catches my hand. I watch as he slowly intertwines his fingers with mine and studies our hands intently. He then looks up at me then chuckles slightly.

"Elfie," he whispers, "h-hello."

"Um, hi." I reply. Sherlock then gently strokes my cheek with his free and gazes into my eyes. His pupils are dilated and unfocused.

"Your eyes," he murmurs, "they're perfect."

My heart skips a beat: _'Focus, Elfie. He's not himself right now. He's not flirting with you.'_

"Thank…thank you." I reply.

"Yes, like…like atoms." He goes on, hooking his hand behind my neck, "the center of an atom. So…very…perfect." Before I can even ask what he means, Sherlock pulls my head in close so that our foreheads are touching. Our lips are mere inches apart.

"Not the woman." He whispers, "my…woman." I take in a sharp breath as he places a soft kiss on the corner of my mouth. His eyes meet mine again, but shortly after, roll around in his skull and he slips back into unconsciousness. His head falls onto my shoulder, but his hand remains entangled with mine. I just sit there in complete shock: his woman? What does that even mean?

"Alright, Fee, grab his arms." John says, coming back at the perfect moment, "I'll grab his legs. Ready?" Snapping out of my thoughts, I decide to not linger on Sherlock's odd comments and just do as I'm told. I hook my hands under Sherlock's arms while John grabs his ankles. Together, we stagger up the stairs, into the flat and down the short hall to Sherlock's bedroom. Once inside, we plop him down on the bed, which looks like it hasn't been made today, and sigh. John turns Sherlock onto his side and pulls the sheets up to his cheeks.

"Breathing is normal," he says, "and no fever. He may just need to sleep it off. He'll be alright in the morning."

"What the hell happened?" I ask, "He said something about a boomerang."

"Boomerang?" John asks in disbelief, "I don't know anything about that. We were on a case for Mycroft when he this happened."

"Mycroft?"

"Sherlock's brother. You did know he had a brother didn't you?" I shake my head and John chuckles slightly: "Lucky you. Come on, we should let Sherlock rest. I'll make you some tea." I nod and follow John out to the kitchen, but before I exit the room completely I look back at Sherlock, deep in his drugged sleep. He looks so peaceful and, in an odd way, very handsome. Smiling, I pull the door closed.

"Thank you for all your help." John says, preparing the kettle, "I didn't know who else to text."

"It's fine, really." I reply, taking a seat at the table/Sherlock's experiment bench, "What really happened, though?"

With a heavy sigh, John tells me the events of the day: the dead hiker in the field, Sherlock being stark naked in Buckingham Palace, everything. What really catches my attention though is this Irene Adler. I had read her name before in the papers-something about an affair with a writer-but I'm surprised Sherlock would be involved in any of her affairs. Case or not, sex doesn't seem like the sort of thing Sherlock would involve in his work.

"What does she have that the government needs?" I ask, sipping my tea.

"The contents of her phone," John explains, "I don't know what's on there but it must be pretty incriminating."

"But Sherlock got the phone, right?"

"No."

"No?"

"She out witted him, hence why he's now lying in bed high as a kite." "But…he's Sherlock. He never messes up."

"To be honest Fee, I don't think he messed up," John says with a sigh, "I think she just beat him."

Just then, Mrs. Hudson, John and Sherlock's elderly landlady, comes up the stairs and enters the kitchen: "Sorry to interrupt," she says, "that package of science equipment came for Sherlock while you two were out, John, and I wanted…Oh! Hello there. A new face." She looks at me and smiles sweetly; "You must be Elfie. Am I saying that correctly? El-fee?"

"Yes, um, hello." I shyly say with a wave, "Nice to meet you."

"Oh, I've heard so much about you." She says, getting rather excited, "Sherlock has told me all about the help you've provided him and John. Oh and look at you. You're every bit a beautiful as he said."

"As who said?" I ask with a laugh,

"Sherlock, dear," she says, "you are all he talks about now, isn't she John? It's nice, you know: Sherlock having a girlfriend. I've always said Sherlock ought to have a woman in his life. I'm so glad he found you. "

My cheeks turn a bright red and I nearly choke on my tea: "Oh, no, no, I'm just a friend." I quickly say, "I'm not…"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'll let Sherlock know." John (thankfully) interrupts, "Why don't you bring it on up here?"

The landlady folds her arms across her chest and gives John a sort of sassy look: "I'm not your housekeeper, dear," she says, exiting the flat, "You can come and get it yourself."

I chuckle slightly and look down at my teacup: Does Sherlock really talk about me with other people? Did he actually say that I was beautiful? His slurred mumbles enter my mind again:

'_Not the woman, my woman'._

Maybe he was trying to tell me something just now. No, of course not, he's drugged. He's not thinking straight right now. It was nothing. I'm getting ahead of myself.

"Ah, damn." John says, looking down at his watch, "I had forgotten."

"What is it?" I ask, snapping out of my content thoughts.

"It's nothing, now." He grumbles, "It's just, I had a date tonight and now I think I'm going to have to cancel. I can't get ready in time and check on Sherlock."

"Well, I can stay with him." I offer, "That is if you don't mind me just hanging out in your flat all night."

"Really? You'd be willing to do that?" John asks, "Its not until 6, and I won't be out late."

"It's no big deal." I assure him, "I'll keep an eye on him."

O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0 o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o A few hours pass and John has left for his date. He went in to check on Sherlock before he left. Sherlock had fallen out of bed and was crawling around, asking were Irene Adler was apparently. Poor Sherlock, he's probably so confused. Part of me feels horrible to see him all doped up, but the other half of me finds it rather amusing. The great Sherlock Holmes crawling on the ground, like a kitten who just learning how to walk. Must be a sight to see.

After John had left, and since Sherlock had fallen back asleep, there's no one I can talk too. I tried studying the contents of the living room-The bookshelf full of miscellaneous text books, encyclopedias and novels, the spray painted happy face on the wall that was originally out lined with bullet holes, the skull on the mantel piece that I can't really tell if it's real or not (I'm hoping it isn't)-but I got bored. Luckily, Sherlock has a copy of the book I was reading at home so I've picked up where I had left off and am fully engrossed in the world of 1800's France.

Honestly though, I've been wondering about that kiss Sherlock gave me. True, it wasn't a real kiss because he was drugged out of his mind, but something still seems like he meant it. He did kiss my cheek that night he walked me to the tube and many other times after that. I always assumed that it was his way of being polite, but what if…what if it means more to him. Mrs. Hudson did say that he talks about me all the time. Could my feelings for him be mutual?

"JAWN!"

Sherlock's loud shout breaks me out of my thoughts and I immediately rush to his room. I open the door to see the world's only consulting detective sprawled out on the floor, on his back, eyes closed and groaning in pain. I quickly kneel down beside him and run a hand through his messy mop of curls.

"Sherlock?" I say, cradling him, "Can you hear me?"

He blinks his eyes open and locks onto my gaze. The drugged out haze is gone, but it still takes him a moment to realize that it's me leaning over him: "Elfie?" he grumbles, his voice less dopy then earlier, "Why are you here?"

"I helped John carry you up here." I say, "You don't remember do you?"

Sherlock shakes his head in disappointment but then looks at me with sudden realization: "Oh, stupid, stupid," He breath out, sitting up fully, "I thought you were her."

"Who, Sherlock?"

"Her." He says again, sounding immensely disappointed in himself, "Where's…where's John?"

"He went out. I'm watching over you." I say, "You okay? You didn't hit your head did you?"

"I…I fell out of bed." He replies,

"Yeah, I can see that." I tease, "Now, come on. Back to bed with you."

"No, no, I have to get my phone." Sherlock grumbles, running a hand through his hair, "It went off."

"I'll get if for you," I say, but he quickly shakes his head.

"No, I need to see the text." He says, "She had my phone."

"Who?"

"The woman."

I furrow my brow in confusion. Earlier he called me that, but now I think he means Irene Adler. But why would she have his phone?

Sherlock latches onto the bed to bring himself upright. I carefully stand with him, making sure that he doesn't topple over. His legs are wobbling like a new born baby giraffe and he is not succeeding on finding a center of balance. As soon as he makes a move for the door, Sherlock falls. Luckily, I'm there to catch him.

"See what I mean." I say, lifting him to stand, "You need to get into bed."

"I'm fine." He grumbles, rubbing his head, "I don't need…"

Suddenly, Sherlock starts to sway in place. He latches onto my shoulders and stumbles forward. I catch him again, but to my surprise Sherlock wraps his arms around me as if to use me to steady his body. Unfortunately, what he ends up doing is tangling his legs with mine and we both clumsily fall onto the bed: I'm lying with my back on the mattress and he is on top of me. At any other time, I'd be ecstatic about this: right now, not so much.

"Sherlock," I say, trying my best to wriggle out of his hold, "You really need to rest."

"You sound like John," he groans loudly, going limp as a log, "I told him I'm fine."

"Sherlock get off of me," I say, trying to lift his body off me, "this is ridiculous."

"Your ridiculous." He grumbles in reply, "Let me sleep."

"I can't if you're going to lay on top of me all night." I argue, "Now, move." But to my dismay, I can hear Sherlock's soft peaceful breathing. I roll my eyes in annoyance and just sigh heavily. He isn't going to move now. Damn it.

Giving in to my loss, I situate myself so that Sherlock's head is resting under my chin instead of face forward in by breast. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and slowly rub my arms up and down his biceps: They are surprisingly hard and muscular, due to his lengthy figure.

To my surprise, Sherlock slowly wraps his arms around my waist causing me to take in a sharp breath. Slowly, Sherlock lifts his head and our eyes lock in a deep gaze. He looks so exhausted and a bit out of it still. However, there is a sparkle to his eyes; not a side effect of the drugs, a natural sparkle. It's very…beautiful. I open my mouth to say something but Sherlock puts a finger to my lips.

"I kissed you didn't I?" he whispers, "Earlier?" Unable to formulate words, I give him a nod. He nods back and looks away, deep in thought. Then, he readjusts his body so that he is no longer on top of me. I get up to leave but find that Sherlock still has his arms around my waist.

I look back him confused; is there something he wants?

"Stay with me?" he asks, sounding a bit like a child who has just woken up from a nightmare.

"Do…do you want me too?" I ask, unsure that he really knows what he's saying. Sherlock gives me an affirmative nod and pulls me back to lie beside him. Slowly, he rests his head on my shoulder and cuddles up close to me. I hold him in return and nuzzle my head atop his. As he falls back asleep, I close my eyes and try to enjoy this rare, probably never going to happen again, moment between us.

My heart is deeply enjoying this, but somehow something doesn't seem right. This isn't how I wanted to spend a night with Sherlock. He's most likely going to wake up tomorrow morning and be in complete shock that I'm beside him. Unless, he does in fact want me here. Maybe this isn't the drug talking. Maybe this is Sherlock's way of asking me to spend the night with him.

"Sherlock," I whisper as a test, "I…I think I should go sleep on the couch."

"No," he mumbles in reply, "I need you here."

"Why?"

"Because she beat me," he whispers.

I open my eyes and furrow my brow in confusion: "Who? Irene Adler?" I whisper back. I feel his head move in a nod. Now it makes sense; Sherlock doesn't want to hold me because he has feelings for me. He wants me here for support; he's lost at his own game and, just like a child, needs to be comforted.

"Sherlock, nobody's perfect." I tell him, "You couldn't have helped it. She tricked you."

"Please," he whispers, falling back asleep, "I don't want to talk about it."

I roll my eyes and wrap my arms around his shoulders; "You're so confusing," I say, half to myself, as I close my eyes and begin to fall asleep.

Just then, I hear the most erotic sigh I've ever heard. Was that…Sherlock? No, no it was a female voice. Female? Curious, I sit up to look around.

"Ignore it," Sherlock mumbles, tightening his hold on me.

"What was it?" I ask, "There is no one else here so where the hell did that come from?"

"Phone."

"Why does your phone make that noise?"

"Darling, just lay back down." Sherlock pulls me back to lie beside him again, but this time on my side so that his body can fit perfectly along my back. Reluctantly giving up on my investigation into the mysterious ringtone, I close my eyes and try to sleep. Suddenly, something clicks in my brain.

"Did you just call me darling?"

Sherlock doesn't reply. He's already back asleep.

_**Hello!**_

_**So this is going to be a like a story within a story. I wanted to make this Irene Adler thing a separate part of this prequel because it's such a big moment in Sherlock Holmes' life. For those who have read my other story, Irene Adler play a big part in Elfie and Sherlock's relationship and I plan on going into detail with that here. It will be the only story in this story that will be more than a one-shot…if that makes sense.**_

_**Thanks for all the follows, favorites and reviews. (Gwilwillith, you can call them whatever you like. I personally like Elflock just cause it sounds very mythical Hahaha). As some of you know, I'm writing a sequel to The Woman at His Side and that will up as soon as it's ready. This story is just a fluffy prequel and won't have much to do with it.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**I also do not own Victor Hugo's Les Miserables ***__**the book in which the opening except is from**__*****_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	4. Chapter 4: What I Did For Love-Part II

_What I Did For Love-Part 2_

Sunlight creeps into the room from the slits in the curtains and hits my face in small streaks. Must be at least mid-morning; why didn't my alarm go off? Oh, right. It's Saturday: no work for me, thank God. After last night's odd events, really, the last thing I want to do is go into work.

The room is chilly and the sun isn't giving off to much heat. Ugh, weather in London: not one of my favorite things about this city. Not wanting to move from my comfortable, warm cocoon of sheets, I curl up into a ball and hide my face in the pillow. _'Five more minutes,'_ I tell myself, digging my head deeper into the pillow, _'then I'll get up…maybe.'_ As I pull duvet up to my cheeks, I realize something:

This isn't my pillow.

These aren't my sheets.

This isn't my bed.

This isn't even my room.

I shoot my eyes open and sit up straight. Did I spend the whole night in Sherlock's bed? Obviously, why else would I still be here? I'm still dressed in my sweats from yesterday and my hair is a complete mess. Rubbing sleep out of my eyes, I look around the bedroom and assess my surroundings. The room is only lit up by the sunlight, but I can see perfectly. It's a very small yet tidy room: there is a poster of the periodic table of elements by the door, a wardrobe, and another door that most likely leads to a bathroom. Since I feel like a complete mess, I should probably go there. Slowly, I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress and allow my socked feet to land on the cold wooden floor.

Once inside the bathroom, I turn on the sink and gently splash cold water on my face. The odd interaction between Sherlock and I last night returns to my mind: tangling our legs together, falling onto the bed, the cuddling, that erotic noise. I stare up into the mirror and run my fingers through my greasy locks; what was the noise and why did it come from Sherlock's phone? I've been around him long enough to know that that is not his normal alert tone. I'll have to ask him about it when he wakes up…wait, I woke up alone. Why was I alone in Sherlock's bed? I clearly remember his arms around me when I fell asleep…and he called me darling.

Darling.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, proper genius, king of no emotions, had called me darling. Did that mean something?

Just then, the faint sound of a violin fills the room. I quickly comb my hair with my fingers, exit the bathroom and head toward the sound. Such beautiful music; really, I don't think I've ever heard a violin played so smoothly before. It's so calming and comforting. As I near the living room, I pause at the entrance and lean against the wall, just listening to the music. I quickly realize that it is Sherlock making the beautiful sound. Of course it would be; is there anything this man can't do? I knew he played the violin, but I didn't know he was _that _good.

John is sitting at the table, back to me, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee while the consulting detective is sort of wandering around the living room, playing the sort of soundtrack to the scene. His red dressing gown is flowing behind him and he definitely looks more like himself now. Wonder if he actually remembers anything from last night?

Sherlock catches me out of the corner of his eye and suddenly stop playing; "Ah! I was wondering when you'd wake up?" he says, setting his instrument down on his desk. Practically bounding over the furniture, Sherlock comes over to me and places his customary kiss on my cheek. "Good morning." he says, staring into my eyes.

"Uh, morning." I say, a bit taken back by his burst of energy. It's still too early for me to process this. His eyes have that sparkle to them that I noticed last night: so beautiful, so distracting.

"Fee, hey," John says, turning around to see me, "Sorry about last night. I didn't expect to be so late and I had no idea that he'd…"

"John, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock says, turning back around to his flat mate, "Elfie willingly stayed over last night. If it were of an inconvenience to her, she would have left as soon as she had finished assisting you. Besides, she would not have offered to care for me while you went out on your so-called date if she didn't think she could be of some help." He then looks back at me and gives me a small smile: "Thank you for that by the way," he whispers at a volume so I can only hear him, "it was very…comforting."

"Your, um, your welcome." I say, feeling my cheeks turn a bright pink.

Sherlock nods and returns his voice to his natural volume: "Coffee?" he asks.

"Um, yes please." I reply and with a flash, Sherlock goes to the kitchen to grab me a cup of coffee. John and I exchange a look of confusion; this is odd behavior for him, very odd.

"What happened last night?" John asks in a low whisper, "I come home, find the living room empty, check on Sherlock and find you two sound asleep in each others arms. Did something happen between you two?"

"To be honest, I don't really know." I reply, taking a seat on the couch, "He fell out of bed, I helped him get up and the next thing I know he's asking me to cuddle with him."

John quickly lowers his paper and gives me a 'you're joking' glare: "He asked you to…cuddle? He? Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well, he didn't say those words, but yeah, in a way, he did." I sheepishly reply, "He said, that he needed me."

"Did he really?" John says, half to himself. He looks toward the kitchen, then at me, then back at the kitchen; he knows something, I can tell. Was there something I missed?

"It must have been the drug talking, right?" I ask, "I mean, come on. That's just not like Sherlock."

"Yeah, of course," He mutters, "just the drug."

Yeah, he's definitely not telling me something.

Sherlock reenters the room and hands me my coffee. I take a sip: Black, one sugar, just the way I like it…of course it is. I give Sherlock a grateful nod and he nods back. God, even in the morning he's beautiful.

"So, Sherlock, now what?" John asks, leaning back in his chair, "You've gotten kicked off this Adler case, so where do you go from here?"

"Kicked off?" I ask, "How do you mean?"

"My brother took the liberty of coming over this morning to tell me to back off of the case," Sherlock says, picking up his violin again, "It's stupid really; Why put me on a case then pull me off? Waste of time."

Just then that awful text alert goes off. I nearly choke on my coffee and John rolls his eyes: "Okay, seriously Sherlock," he says, "Turn that bloody thing off."

Giving John a quick glare, Sherlock quickly picks up his phone from the table and checks it.

"Another text?" I ask, but Sherlock completely ignores me.

"You knew about his new ringtone?" John asks, giving me a raised eyebrow look.

"He's phone went off last night," I reply, "I asked him about it, but he just ignored me."

John then turns to look at Sherlock again: "So this isn't the first text she's sent you? It's '_her',_ isn't it? Who else would have that on your phone?"

"As I stated this morning, John, I'll leave you to your deductions." Sherlock grumbles.

What does John mean by her? Irene Adler? No, it couldn't be. I look to Sherlock in surprise: "Why does your phone make that sound?" I ask

Sherlock gives me a quick glance and tosses his phone in his pocket. He has an interesting look in his eyes, one that says 'Let it go and don't ask about it.' I give him an understanding nod and quietly sip my coffee. To my surprise, though, Sherlock takes a seat beside me and set a hand on my thigh. "What are you doing this afternoon?" He asks, rather intent on me giving an answer.

"Um, uh, I don't know." I reply, "I was going to head home in a little bit."

"Perfect, I'm coming with you." He says, moving his hand to grab my own, "I need to go to the lab, pick up a few things anyway." Before I can even muster a reply, Sherlock rises off the couch and pulls me up with him. Our eyes meet and my practically jumps out of my chest. He's never look at me this way before, like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on.

"You okay?" I ask, extremely taken back by his odd behavior.

"Never better," he replies, going to grab his coat from his room, "Now, what do you need to get ready? I want to leave in 3 minutes."

"I, um, just need to grab my bag."

"Got it! Lets go." In the blink of an eye, Sherlock removes his dressing gown, snatches up my satchel from where I left it last night (beside the couch) and tosses it to me. He then takes me by the hand and drags me out of the flat with him. I quickly shout a good-bye to John from over my shoulder as we descend the stairs; he's probably just as confused right now as I am.

"Okay, what's up?" I ask, as we stop by the curb to hail down a cab, "You're acting really weird."

"Am I?" Sherlock asks, waving his hand to signal an oncoming cab, "Didn't notice."

"Sherlock." I say, folding my arms across my chest, "Talk to me. What's going on in that brain of yours?"

He looks at me and sighs; "I must apologize for last night." He says, half regretfully, "I wasn't myself in anyway and I couldn't help doing…whatever it is I did."

I furrow my brow in confusion: "Sherlock if you're apologizing for laying in bed with me last night, don't." I say, "I didn't mind and it's not like anything happened. Consider it a…friendly gesture."

"And that kiss," he goes on, becoming very serious now, "what would consider that to be?"

"I, um, I…I don't know." I reply, looking down at my feet, "I guess, because you were drugged and all, it…"

Suddenly, Sherlock cups my face in his hands and pushes his lips against my own. My eyes widen with shock and I almost loose my balance. I know I should pull away and slap him across the face, but I can't; my body is completely in shock. I close my eyes and rest my hands on his broad shoulders.

My pulse is racing.

My heart is pounding.

I can't even think straight.

Sherlock Holmes is kissing me. This is really happening. Why is this happening?

Very slowly, Sherlock separates his lips from mine and wraps his arms around my shoulders. "Good," he says, with a nod, "that was the result I was looking for."

"The result-wait, what?" I ask, trying to catch my breath, "What do you mean…" Sherlock places a finger to my lips and looks deeply into my eyes.

"Elfie, I must ask this of you," he whispers, nuzzling his forehead against my own, "You mustn't speak a word of this to John or to anyone for that matter. I am assessing something deeply personal, something I've never experienced before, and in order to get a complete and accurate result, I need you to act as if everything is normal between us."

"But...but…" I stammer, "was that-did you mean to do that?"

"Of course," he replies, "and I am sorry if I've offended you in any way, but please, I need to know that you won't speak of this to anyone. Promise me that?"

"But…but…what does that mean," I ask completely flabbergasted, "Am I apart of an experiment, like a specimen?"

"God no," he says, "I could never think of you in that way." Sherlock then brushes a strand of my hair behind my ear and sighs. "Ms. Adler did something to me yesterday," he says, "something that I couldn't explain or deduce. For the first time in my life, I felt…lost, confused and mystified. And then last night, when you were with me, it happened again and right now, after kissing you it has returned and …and I need to know that it isn't just a side effect of whatever drug I was given. You and Irene Alder have something in common; you both…" Sherlock suddenly pauses and looks away from me, deep in thought.

"I need to know what this feeling is," he says, still not looking up at me, "and I can't figure it out if things between us change."

"I…I don't understand." I say, "You just kissed me and now your asking me to forget all about it?"

"Please, just do this for me." He says, looking at me with pleading eyes, He cups my face in his hands again and gently brushes his thumbs across my cheeks: "As I've told you before, I hold you in very high regard," he goes on, "I understand that this may be confusing for you and the last thing I would want to do is upset you. But I need you to trust me on this. I had to kiss you right now for reasons that I can't explain just yet. Give me time and I will explain it all to you; that's a promise."

I look him in the eyes and gulp down my emotions. I can see the honesty and desperation in his gaze and it pierces my heart. Dear Lord, this isn't just a hopeless crush I have; this is love. I'm in love with this impossible man. It is for that reason alone that I give him an affirmative nod just now:

"You have my word," I say, taking his hands into my own, "I won't say a word about this…whatever this is."

"Thank you," he says with a sigh of relief, "thank you for your trust."

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Months pass and things, as I had promised, are normal between Sherlock and I. We never mention the kiss or cuddling together or any aspect of that night for that matter; we act like it had never happened. His weekly visits to my office have become less common though and the occasionally trip to the lab with him and John doesn't happen as often. We haven't completely stopped talking to each other, just not as frequently. Of course, all I can think about is that moment: His lips pressed against my own, his arms draped around me as he tried to explain why we have to keep our kiss a secret (which I still don't understand) and those eyes, shining and sparkling as they gaze into my own. What can I say; I'm hopelessly in love with this man.

I can't help but wonder what Sherlock meant about Irene Adler and I having something in common. From what I've read about her, Ms. Adler is cunning and smart and devilishly beautiful. Me, I'm average. The only thing I can think of us being similar is perhaps our hair, but what significance is that Sherlock? It's very difficult to not just ask him about it, but I made a promise. I promised never to bring it up and so that's what I'll do.

Christmas had come before I knew it. John had invited me over to Baker Street for a few drinks and such, but I politely declined and said that I'd be over tomorrow for a bit. Something just didn't seem right with me hanging out at their flat all night while Sherlock and I were going through…well, whatever is happening between us. Besides, I wanted to be alone tonight, which sounds depressing but trust me, it's what I need. The only family I have is my mother back in California and we aren't close, at least not close enough for me to fly over for Christmas Eve and Day.

My roommate, Hattie, did fly back home to California to be with her dad so it is nice and quiet at the apartment. I'm curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and an oversized flannel blanket watching _It's A Wonderful Life_ when there is a sudden and fast knock at my door.

"Who the hell?" I ask myself, sitting up and pausing the film. I climb off the couch and go to the door.

_Knock-knock-knock!_

"I'm coming, I'm coming, just hold on." I say, slightly annoyed that my evening is being interrupted. I open the door and almost fall back in shock to see who my visitor is: "Sherlock," I say, placing a hand on my chest, "What are you dong here? I thought you guys had a party or something going on."

"May I come in?" He asks, his voice low and monotone. I nod and Sherlock rushes inside. I close the door behind him and take a good long look at my friend; He looks distressed but not in the way he looks when he's working. He looks…sad, troubled, and heartbroken even.

"So to what do I owe the pleasure?" I say, returning to my spot on the couch, "Making a personal 'Merry Christmas' call?" I smile at him, but he just stares at me coldly. I quickly notice a half-smoked cigarette in his hand; Okay, now I know something is up. He quit smoking and it would take a lot to get him to fall off the wagon now: I know, we talked about it.

"Are you going to share?" I ask, nudging my head to the cigarette. Sherlock looks down at it then back at me.

"You quit smoking." He says.

"So did you." I tease. He lets a small smirk grow across his face and he holds the stick out to me, non-lit end first. Leaning forward, I take a small hit then relax back, blowing smoke out into the air. "That's better then I remember," I say.

"I didn't come over here to hook you back on nicotine," Sherlock says, taking a seat beside me.

"Why did you come over then?" I ask, "I thought we weren't really talking."

Sherlock's face becomes stone cold and his eyes grow dark and sad: "She's dead." He states, resting his elbows on his knees and staring straight ahead.

"Who?" I ask, sitting up straight.

"Irene Adler." He says, "She died. I don't know how, but I identified her body and it was so mangled and bashed. I've just come from the morgue and I feel…something. I don't know what it is, but…it hurts." Sherlock quickly shakes his head and takes a puff at the cigarette. He looks so upset, like someone has come in and shook he's whole world to its core.

Suddenly, it clicks in my brain. I can't believe I didn't see this before: He had feelings for Irene. It makes sense now; the woman who beat him had affected his heart. Not to mention her beauty probably caught him off guard; even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't be immune to her looks. Wait, could that be it? The similarity between her and I: I looked like her and so Sherlock kissed me in hopes that I could be like her. My heart aches a bit at the thought. No, no, of course not. That can't be it. Can it?

"I'm sorry," he says, breathing out smoke, "I didn't mean to drop this news on you. It's just I didn't know where else to go right now."

"It's okay." I say, setting a comforting hand on his back, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"What's there to talk about?" he says, dryly, "I…I hardly knew her."

"Then why do you think are you so upset?" I ask.

"Because I'll never get my answer," he says, "I'll never know the reason she had such an affect on me. I'll never know how or why I was so foolish and let her win. I'll never know…" Sherlock looks down at his lap and takes another hit from the cigarette, "Have you ever felt like this," he goes on, "like your stomach is tied up in a knot and you can't think properly because you're so distracted? And then you try and fix it, but you don't know what there is to fix."

"I…I have yes." I reply, cautiously rubbing my hand up and down his back, "It's called being in love. You…loved her didn't you?" He then looks at me and I give him an understanding smile. A fake one, but a smile nonetheless. Sherlock just looks into my eyes as if he were trying to read me. Slowly, he moves closer to me so that our thighs are touching.

"Come with me," he whispers and I feel my heart skip a beat.

"Wh-where?" I ask, trying to remain calm.

"Baker Street." He says, "I can't be alone right now and…I need you." I look at him slightly confused and worried; what does he mean 'can't be alone right now'? Never the less, I nod and quickly go to grab my coat. We walk out of my apartment and down the lobby in silence. As soon as we are outside, Sherlock takes my hand into his own.

"You're wrong, you know?" he says, finishing up his cigarette, "I didn't love her. I've never been in love before."

"Oh," Is all I can think of to say to him. I look down at our hands and furrow my brow in confusion: "Why are you holding my hand?" I ask, but he doesn't reply. Sherlock just flags down a taxi and we head to Baker Street in complete silence, hands still intertwined.

When we reach the flat, we head upstairs: Sherlock in the lead and me hiding behind him. As we reach the door, he suddenly stops and looks around. "You okay?" I hear John ask, but Sherlock doesn't immediately reply.

"Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time," he finally says, squeezing my hand and pulling me along as he heads toward his bedroom.

"Merry Christmas, John." I say as we pass by him. John shakes his head in disbelief and has to do a double take at Sherlock and I. He opens his mouth to comment, but we are already down the hall and out of earshot.

Sherlock opens his bedroom door and escorts me inside. Cautious, I take a seat on the corner of the bed. I don't know what he's thinking and right now that frightens me. He seems so distraught and confused that I can't predict his neck move. I watch him carefully as he turns on the lamp at the far corner of the room. He then removes his scarf and coat and tosses them to the floor.

"Why am I here, Sherlock?" I finally ask. He looks at me with very sad eyes and removes his blazer.

"Do you not want to be?" he asks, sitting beside me.

"I'm just confused," I say, looking him in the eyes, "What's going on? Six months ago, you kissed me and told me never to speak of it anyone because you're working on figuring something out and now you're acting like…well, I don't know. Is it because of Irene? Look, if you want to talk about it…"

"I don't want to talk about her." He says, "I want to talk about us."

"What is there to talk about?" I say, "You kissed me six months ago and have been cold to me ever since. Sherlock, I'm at a complete loss here. Just tell me what's going on so I can understand you. I want to be friends again, please. Just talk to me."

"Did we ever stop being friends?" he asks, looking away ashamed.

"To be honest, it felt like we did." I reply, "Look, you know that I care about you and that I trust you with my life; that's why I made you that promise to never tell anyone about our kiss. But, I don't like being toyed with. You can't play with my emotions like that and then toss them aside like it's part of an experiment."

"I wasn't toying with you." Sherlock mumbles, "I was figuring it all out."

"Figuring what out?" I ask, getting agitated with his short answers, "Sherlock just talk to me. What is going on in that brain of yours?"

"I don't know that's the problem." He spits out rather quickly. He takes in a deep breath and rests his elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor:

"I don't know what I'm thinking when I'm around you." He goes on, running his fingers through his curls, "the same thing happened when I was first around that woman as well. I couldn't deduce or think properly; it was like some external force was blocking me from doing my job. That's how she beat me; I was at a loss. Then there's you, Elfie. I look at you and it's the same effect on my brain. You and her are two completely different people and yet have the same affect on me. I couldn't understand it six months ago and I can't understand it now. But when I looked at that body tonight, the first thought that entered my mind…was you."

"Why me?" I ask; my emotions are rattling around inside of me that I can't really keep calm.

Sherlock looks up at me and straightens his back: "You don't know how many times I've asked myself that question since the day I met you," he says, looking deeply into my eyes, "You could say that I thought of you because of the similarities the two of you shared in my mind, but that wouldn't be correct."

"What would be correct then?" I ask in a small voice.

Sherlock takes in a deep breath and intertwines his hand with mine: "I looked at her body and didn't feel an ounce of what I felt when she was alive. However, my head was swarming with all these emotions and I was so confused. I'm not a man who is ruled by his feeling, you know that, and yet I couldn't help be feel compelled by them at this moment. In my mind, the only solution to this confusion was to be with you. That was the answer, Elfie: the answer I've been looking for since I kissed you that day."

"Which is what exactly?"

"That my whole being is madly affected by you and you alone. You have, in a way, bewitched me, Elfie, and I don't understand it. I've never felt this way toward anyone before and I don't know what to do. As I told you before, relationships aren't really my area thus I don't know what I'm supposed to do with these feelings. All I know is that they are wholly committed to you and, if you'll allow me to ask, I want to know if you have the same feelings for me."

I stare at him, completely in shock. How did this evening's events turn to this? I don't understand it, and yet I am utterly happy about it. I don't know what process was going on in that brilliant mind of his, but Sherlock seems to be satisfied with the end result. That, of course, being that he has feelings for me; Sherlock Holmes has feelings for me, Elfie Stegerson from Orange County, California: a nobody, an average person.

Without really thinking, I lean forward so that our foreheads are nuzzled together. "Sherlock, I…I feel the same way," I whisper, "I always have."

Sherlock gently hooks his free hand behind my neck and pulls my head in for a kiss. Our eyes meet for a fleeting second before we exchange a soft kiss on the lips. My heart starts to flutter and I feel like I can soar. Time seems to stop and there is nothing else around us.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" he whispers when our lips part.

"Of course," I reply, cupping his face in my hands, "Did you expect me to just leave after that manifesto just now?" Sherlock gives me a small smile then kisses me again. He then rises from the bed and heads to his dresser to grab his pajamas. As he's getting changed in the bathroom, I pull my hair out of my high ponytail and remove my large coat. When he reenters, Sherlock freezes mid-step and just looks at me bewildered.

"What?" I ask, "Do you not want me to stay in here? I can sleep on the couch, if you want me too."

"No, no, your fine." He says, running a hand through his curls, "I just, um…you look different with your hair down." I blush and crawl under the covers while Sherlock goes over to his dresser again. He picks up a small box and removes a black cell phone from it. I watch him as he just stares at the lock screen and gently brushes his fingers across the keyboard.

"That looks new," I say, "did you just get it?"

"Yes, in a way" he says, quickly putting the phone away. Sherlock then turns off the lamp, making the room nice and dark. I feel the mattress shift as he climbs into the bed beside me and shortly after, his warm arms fold around my middle. "Is this alright?" he whispers, placing a kiss on my cheek.

"It is very much alright." I reply, turning my body so that I am facing him. We exchange a quick kiss then Sherlock adjusts himself so that he is lying on his back. I close my eyes and rest my head atop his chest, listening to his rhythmic breathing.

"Fee," he whispers, "do…do you know how to open those kind of phones?"

"Mhm," I reply, resting a hand atop his chest, "You need a customary password. Why? Don't you know how to open your own phone?"

"It's not my phone." He replies, gently stroking my hair, "I'm…I'm holding it for awhile."

"Oh," I yawn, closing my eyes, "that's very nice of you. Whose phone is it?" I feel Sherlock's chest rise and fall with a heavy sigh and then his hold around me tight just a little.

"It's nothing." He replies, "Just…nothing."

_**Hello, hello, hello!**_

_**Well, that was a long chapter. I didn't intend it to be that long but I just couldn't find the right place to stop this one.**_

_**Reading it back, I realize that Sherlock may seem very OOC here and that's not my intention. I just felt that this would be the appropriate time in which he would begin to question his feelings for Elfie as well as Irene. This is new territory for him and he doesn't know what to do, which is never good for Sherlock Holmes.**_

_**Also, I wanted to make clear that they are officially a couple yet. Yes they have told each other how they feel, but there will be a more formal coming together soon…Hope that makes sense. XD**_

_**I'm not done with the Irene Adler story so there will be at least one more part to this 'story-in-a-story'. I have one more story after that, but please let me know what you guys might want to read.**_

_**Thanks for the reviews, follows and favorites. They truly keep me motivated.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	5. Chapter 5: What I Did For Love-Part III

_What I Did For Love-Part 3_

After our Christmas evening together, things were indeed different between Sherlock and I. He would make it part of his daily routine to meet me after work and walk me home; we don't talk much, but his hand always holds tightly onto my own. On my days off, I would gladly join him and John at the lab or at Baker Street. Our friendship obviously grew and I'm over the moon that we have the same feelings for each other. However, something is tugging at my heartstrings, a sort of uncertain feeling. Yes it's only been a week since we became…whatever we are, but I can't help but think that a relationship with me isn't what Sherlock wants.

To be honest, Sherlock's been acting rather depressed since Christmas. He's not his normal, jumpy, always thinking self, but rather very closed off and cold. Every time I come over to Baker Street, he is either playing sad music on his violin or fiddling with that camera phone I saw in his bedroom on Christmas.

That seems to be his new hobby, playing with that phone. He has it with him at all times and he just stares at the lock screen like it's the most mind boggling thing he's ever dealt with.

New Years Eve has arrived and, like most people that consider them in a partnership with someone, I plan on spending it with my boyfriend, or partner, er…I don't know what to call him really. Sherlock never says that I'm his girlfriend or anything like that. He hasn't even told John about us although I'm pretty certain John knows what's going on. When John will ask about it, Sherlock quickly changes the subject and ignores him completely or he becomes very stand offish and defensive. Is he embarrassed by it? Does he think it's wrong that we're together? I really don't know what is going on in that brain of his, but on this topic, I really need to know.

At about mid-morning, I take a cab to Baker Street and head up the stairs to see Sherlock. The whole flat is filled with the somber sound of his violin. He's playing a song I've never heard before: an original, perhaps? Well, whatever it is it's very sad and lament-ish. I reach the top of the stairs and remain in the archway to the living for a moment, just listening to the music. Sherlock is standing at his normal playing spot in front of the windows, back to me, wearing his blue dressing gown over his regular clothes. Despite the obviously sad song, he plays so beautifully that it's mesmerizing to watch. Suddenly, he stops mid-stroke and stands completely still like a statue.

"How did you get in?" he asks, without even turning around.

"Mrs. Hudson opened the door for me," I reply, entering the room fully, "I figured I'd stop by before work and see what you were up to. See what your plans were for this evening.

"You could've sent me a text." he says, coldly, "The museum is in the opposite direction of Baker Street from your flat. A simple text might have saved you a decent cab fare as well as the five minutes past your normal start time that you'll be late for."  
"Well, maybe I wanted to see you." I say, taken back by his icy tone, "Is that so wrong?"

"No…just a waste of time on your part." He then starts to play again as if to dismiss me from his presence. I roll my eyes and go to his side. I'm use to his blunt rudeness, but this is extra cold. Something must be up. Gently, I set a hand on his shoulder, not occupied by the instrument, and he stops playing. He turns his head to face me: "Need something?" he asks.

"Yes." I reply. I lean up on my tiptoes and place a small kiss on his lips. He returns the gesture, but not for long.

"Why do want to know my plans for this evening?" he asks, setting his violin down in its case.

"Well, it's New Years Eve," I explain, "I'm off early and I wanted to know if you wanted to ring in the new year together. Maybe grab a late lunch/early dinner, have a glass of wine: you know, just have a nice evening alone."

"Dull." He replies very monotone like.

"Dull?" I ask, gulping down my disappointment and hurt.

"Yes, I see no point in it." He goes on, tossing off his dressing gown and sitting at his desk, "New Years Eve is like any other day of the year so why make a big deal out of it? It's stupid, really and quite an inconvenience to me. Why must we make an evening alone out of it?"

"Because that's what people in a relationship do on New Years," I reply, trying my best to hide my annoyance in my voice, "that is, of course, if you even view us in a relationship."

"Of course I do," he says, opening his laptop. He obviously isn't paying any attention to me right now and normally I'd be okay with that, because that's who he is. Right now, however, this is the last straw. He's been to stand offish about this and he can't toy with my feelings like this. I need a clear answer.

"You sure don't act like it," I say, folding my arms across my chest; my voice cold and straightforward, "Please, Sherlock, if this…thing between us is a waste of your time let me know. I don't want to be a nuisance to you and if your heart isn't in this, I want to know. I _need _to know."

Sherlock sighs and finally looks me directly in the eyes: "You're upset with me." He says, leaning back coolly in his chair.

"Oh? You think?" I sarcastically scoff.

"I told you before that I'm not good with relationships, Elfie," he says with clear agitation, "If you were expecting perfection from me, then it was in vain. I told you how I felt about you and you said that you felt the same. Have your feelings changed or is there just something I'm missing?"

"Sherlock, my feelings haven't changed," I say, "It's just that, you've been acting really off ever since Christmas and…and I just need to know that what you said to me wasn't just out of some sort of angst about Irene Adler."

I immediately regret saying those words as soon as they leave my mouth; I knew her death affected Sherlock deeply and, out of respect for him, I vowed to never bring her up. Sherlock just looks at me, completely emotionless, as he takes in a sharp breath. He's upset, truly, now: I can just tell.

"You know that's not true," he says.

"But, honestly, I don't." I reply, "Sherlock, I know you felt something for her and that's okay, I don't mind. But she's gone. I don't mean to sound cold, but that's the truth. If you aren't over whatever feelings you had for her, then maybe we shouldn't do…this."

"You're implying that my feelings for you are false," he says, suddenly becoming very stern, "that I invented them out of some sort of depression I felt over that woman's death. You couldn't be more wrong, Elfie Stegerson, I can assure you. I felt nothing for her. She was…nothing to me."  
"Why won't you call her by her name?" I say, "Go on. Say it: Irene Adler."

"Don't taunt me." He hisses, picking up that camera phone from his desk, "I don't appreciate being treated like a child."

"Then stop acting like one and just admit that you had a crush on her," I snap back, "Look, I don't care, but as I told you before, I don't like being toyed with. If you don't want to be in a relationship with me, just say so. I would rather you be honest with me, then lead me on like this. I know that Irene had some affect on you mentally; enough for you to even doubt your skills. You won't admit it, but I know it's true. Ever since her death, you've been acting depressed, cold and, dare I say it, heartbroken. I know a broken heart when I see one, Sherlock, and you are clearly suffering from one. Look, I'm not trying to put you down. I just want to know your intentions. Do you want to be with me or not?"

Sherlock doesn't reply or give any sign that he was listening to me just now. His attention is fully fixed on that stupid camera phone again. Suddenly, something clicks in my brain: "Oh my god," I say, shaking my head in disbelief, "I can't believe it."

"What?" he asks, still not looking at me, "Glad to get that little rant out of your system?"  
"That's her phone, isn't it?" I ask.

Sherlock glares at me and tosses the phone back onto the desk; "And if it is?" he says, "What do you care?"  
"What do I…Seriously, did not listen to a single word I just said?" I shout, finally loosing it, "I don't like being toyed with Sherlock, I told you that! I especially don't appreciate being taken advantage of."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" he snaps, rising from his chair and hovering over me, "That I'm taking advantage of your feelings for me? You think that I'm that shallow?"

"No, I think you're that naïve about your own god damn feelings." I snap back, "You put on this emotionless, machine like façade and act like nobody in the world matters to you. Then along comes one woman and she makes your precious walls fall down. But instead of accepting those feelings like a normal person, you keep them locked inside and settle for something else just so you can go on living your life. Well, let me tell you something, Sherlock Holmes; I am not your consolation prize. If what you said to me on Christmas was the truth, then confirm it now. Tell me right now that I'm not just some silver medal to Irene Adler. Tell me that you really do care for me. If you can't…then I don't know if I can keep seeing you, friend or otherwise."

"You have no right to say that," he hisses, "you…you said that you cared for me, so why are you being so cold now? I have opened up to you in ways that I never thought I could with anyone and now your accusing me of being false? I hold you in very high regard, Elfie, and consider you one of my dearest of friends."

"One of your dearest friends or your only friend, because I can clearly see now why you don't have any. You care for no one, do you? You're just a cold, emotionless, heartless…freak."

My eyes grow wide with shock and I quickly bite my lower lip; I didn't mean to say that. I didn't mean a word of that. That was a clear case of emotions taking over and me not thinking. Sherlock's gaze quickly turns from angry to hurt…deeply hurt. He blinks a few times then runs a hand through his curls as he goes back to stand by the windows. Oh God, what have I done?

"Sherlock." I whisper, looking down at the floor, "I'm…I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Get out." He says, not even daring to look at me, "Please…just go."

"Wait, Sherlock, let me explain."  
"I said go."

"But…"

"Go."

Not wanting to make matters worse than I already have, I take in a deep breath and quickly leave. As I descend the stairs, I pass by Mrs. Hudson who gives me a concerned, motherly, look:

"Everything alright, dear?" she asks, "Were you able to get Sherlock to tell you anything? He's been real down in the dumps lately, but I'm sure he was glad to see you. You always seem to bring out the best of moods in him."

"I, um, I…I gotta go." I quickly say, passing by her and sprinting outside. I don't stop sprinting until I reach the tube station and am seated on my train on the way to work. Letting my emotions finally settle, I rest my elbows on my knees and hold my head in my hands. _'What did I just do?'_ I ask myself, feeling tears fill up my eyes, _'What the hell did I just do?'_

Relationships are the oddest of things. When they begin, it feels like everything is meant to be and life is lived on Cloud Nine. Then time goes by and the so-called honeymoon period fades away; reality sets in and the question of 'is this really worth the time and effort' sets in.

In the case of Sherlock Holmes and I, there was no honeymoon period. Reality had stuck us from the get go and now, I fear, our friendship will never recover from it. In fact, I don't think we can ever be friends again. I've hurt him, the man that I love and I don't think he will ever forgive me.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0

Weeks go by and I've heard nothing from Sherlock. John, on occasion, texts me just see how I am and if I'd like to grab a drink with him (strictly as friends, he assures me), but I politely decline; it just doesn't feel right. I did, however, tell him that I've kept up with his blog. Apparently, Irene Adler is alive and I'm not going to lie and say that I'm not affected by that piece of news. Sherlock must be happy…or relieved…I don't know. I asked John about how Sherlock reacted to the news, but he just said that he was 'same ol' Sherlock'. I want to ask Sherlock myself, but I just can't.

The weeks became months and I've come to terms with my life being back to the way it was pre-Sherlock. I told my roommate that I'll always have feelings for Sherlock and that I will always regret not making it work with him, and that in all honesty I'm okay. I'm lying of course, but I have to move on. I realize now that there is a fine line between being together and not; Sherlock and I were never together and I was stupid enough to let it all go to my head. And now, I've lost probably my best friend, never to speak with him again. I don't want to text Sherlock or call or anything because it really isn't my place. After all, I'm the one that brought on the argument and called him a freak. God, I can't believe I said that.

One night, as I pack up my satchel with some extra work that I need to take home, my phone buzzes in my right coat pocket. Curious, I dig it out and stare in shock at the message on the screen:

'_Meet me at the steps. It's urgent-SH'_

He texted me: Sherlock hasn't spoken to me in months but now just texted me saying that he needs to meet with me. My heart skips a beat and one tear escapes my left eye. I grab my things, turn out the light and rush out of the museum.

I can't think straight because I'm so excited. I thought I'd never hear from him again. It could just be nothing-a simple 'can I burrow this book' or something along those lines-but I don't care. For the first times in months, I feel like I whole again. Sherlock is back in my life, even if it's just for a moment.

I reach the steps and there, sitting at the bottom like he use to, is Sherlock Holmes. I take in a deep breath and walk over to him: My heart is racing and my stomach is full of butterflies. Slowly, I take in a deep breath and speak:

"Hello, Sherlock." I say when I'm directly behind him. Sherlock stands up, dusts off his trousers and turns to face me. God, is it possible that he's gotten more handsome during the time we've been apart?

"Hello," he says, giving me that half mouth smirk I've missed so much, "pleasure to see you again."

"Is it?" I ask, sheepishly. Sherlock chuckles slightly and hold his hand out to me. I gladly take it and we shake just like we use too. Our eyes lock for a moment and I can't help but tear up.

"You're crying," he says, sounding worried, "Is something the matter?"

"No, no, I'm fine." I reply, drying my eyes on my sleeve, "I, um…Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry for what I said to you. I didn't-"

To my surprise, Sherlock lets go of my hand and gently puts a finger to my lips: "Don't." he says in a soft tone, "You…you were right. I wasn't being honest with you and I thought I was ready for...Actually, I'm not even sure what I thought I was ready for. I made a mistake, a huge mistake. I fell for that woman's tricks and…yes; I feel something for her even though it was all in vein. But that is no excuse for what I did to you, Elfie and for that I am deeply sorry." He then looks into my eyes and takes both my hands into his own: "I hate to do this, but I must ask for your help in ending this whole affair for good." He goes on, becoming very stern, "I need you, Elfie, and after this I promise you, I will never bother you with Irene Adler ever again."

"What do you need me for?" I ask, "John told me that she's gone; no one knows where she went."

"No one but me." Sherlock admits, looking down at our hands in shame, "I…I've been tracking her via her phone. I'm not proud of that, Elfie, I assure you, but I needed to know her whereabouts. That phone of hers held too much information that someone like her can't just be allowed to roam freely. She had too many connections to too many dangerous people and now she's in trouble. I have to help her, Elfie you must understand that."

I take in a deep breath and slip my hands away from his as if to subconsciously tell him that I don't understand nor do I wish to. Sherlock sighs heavily and nods, understandingly; he always could read my mind.

"I know that I have no right in the world to ask it of you," he says, "but I need your help. She's in Karachi, Pakistan; home to a terrorist cell that she somehow obtained information on. I have reason to believe that she has be captured by this group and I...I need to save her. The problem is I don't know the culture as well as I should and I would have extreme difficulties in the process of saving her; possibly even bring myself to fatal dangers. Elfie, I know that you know the culture. I helped you write that lecture on the Middle East remember? I could use your knowledge in this instance and I promise you, your name won't be connected to any of my plans. I'll keep you safe. Please, if you could assist me in this I will forever be in your debt. In fact…if you wish it, I will out of your life and never bother you with such things ever again."

I bite my lower lip and look away; he's right. He has no right to ask this off me. What does he think; that he can just bat his beautiful, sea foam eyes at me and I'll crumble to my knees to help him? This is insane! How the hell is I suppose to help Sherlock save his crush from a terrorist group? I'm a historian-which, according to him is the thing he needs.

I look back at him and gently cup his head in my hands. He closes his eyes as we nuzzle our foreheads together, our lips mere inches away from each other. Oh, how I just want to kiss him right now and tell him that he doesn't need Irene Adler and that he can have me. But that's not what he wants. He wants…the woman. If that will make him happy, then so be it. I am not ashamed to admit that I'm only helping him because I love him. He has my heart and he always will.

"Come in my office," I whisper, "let me see what I can do."

Sherlock lets out a heavy sigh and opens his eyes again: "Thank you." He says, "Truly, thank you."

I gave him every bit of information I knew on Middle Eastern cultures and he filled me in on his plan. With this information, Sherlock was able to perfect his disguise and his manner of attack. He was going to disguise himself and sneak into the terrorist cell to save Irene Adler. It would be dangerous, but I'm not worried; Sherlock may do crazy, ridiculous things, but never without a plan. Sherlock informed me that he would be leaving tonight for Pakistan and asked if I would be willing to meet him on his arrival back to London in two days time. John was out of town as well and since I was the only person who knew of his plan, it would make the most sense for me to be there. I agreed and waited anxiously for the day to come.

Two days passed at a snails pace, but I arrived at Heathrow Airport at 2:47am just as Sherlock's flight was landing. I wait patiently at baggage claim, checking the face of every person that walked by just in case I had missed him. After about 5 minutes of waiting, I spot Sherlock, wearing jeans and black t-shirt and carrying a tan backpack over his left shoulder, looking very much 'not himself'. I'm surprised that he's alone; I was under the assumption that Irene would be coming back with him, but apparently not. I wave to him and he immediately spots me. To my surprise, but not displeasure, Sherlock runs toward me, pushing past a few weary travelers, and wraps his arms around me in a tight embrace. I happily return the gesture.

"Is it wrong of me to say that I've missed you?" he whispers into my ear.

"No, it's not wrong at all," I say with a small chuckle, rubbing my hands up and down his back, "I've…I've miss you too. God, I really did miss you." I close my eyes and nuzzle my head onto his shoulder. Sherlock tightens his hold on me and we remain like this for countless moments.

"Are you okay?" I ask when we finally part and head out of the airport to our waiting cab, "You're not hurt or anything, right?"

"I'm fine," he replies, taking my hand into his, "I'm…I'm just glad its over."

"Is she...alive?" I ask, cautiously.

"Yes," Sherlock sighs, giving my hand a tight squeeze, "And, Elfie?"

"Yes?"

"I promise you, I will never speak of this ever again." Sherlock pulls me off to the side and gently cups my face in his hands: "You have been good to me, Elfie Stegerson, far too good to me." He goes on, rubbing his thumbs across my cheeks, "I…I told you before that if you wish me too, I would stay out of your life. I have put you through so much recently that it would be logical for you to end this friendship now, before I could ever hurt you again."

"Sherlock, don't be stupid." I say, gazing into those eyes of his, "I…I could never have you out of my life."

He furrows his brow in confusion: "Even after all that I've put you through?" he asks, "Even after I…I mean, we…we were a…relationship?"

"Even after that," I say with a laugh, taking his hands into my own, "Sherlock, you mean so much to me that…that I can't imagine my life without you. You're my best friend, truly and I'm not going to leave you, ever."

Sherlock smiles and looks down at our intertwined hands: "Will you…will you then consider something for me?" he asks.

"What is it?"

"Will you consider…taking me back?" Sherlock looks back up at me with hopeful eyes and my heart skips a beat; "I never lied to you," he goes on, "You have affected my heart in ways that no one ever could and no one ever will. This case, all of it, has shown me that caring for someone is much different than actually falling…in love. I have come to the conclusion that love, although a major distraction toward the important things in life, can never be fully experience unless with someone who genuinely returns the affection." I open my mouth to speak, but he quickly puts his fingers to my lips to stop me. Gazing into my eyes, he goes on: "I want to share that affection with you, Elfie Stegerson and it has taken me far to long to realize it. I'm…scared by this feeling I'll admit it. However, I would be more than happy to share it with you…if you are willing to let me try. All I ask is for you to be patient with me; I hurt you before, and I will do everything in my power to not make that mistake again. I…I love you."

"Sherlock," I breathe out, trying to wrap my head around what he has just told me, "I…I don't know what to say. That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me and…and…and…" I look into those gorgeous eyes of his and contently sigh. Without another word, I cup his face in my hands and place a deep kiss on his lips. Sherlock wraps his arms around me and returns the gesture, even dipping me slightly. I have never felt so happy and so alive in all my life. This man, who simply waltzed into my office one day, has stolen my heart and dragged me on an emotional coaster, but it's all been worth it.

He loves me. Sherlock Holmes loves me.

Our lips finally part and Sherlock stands me back upright; "We should, um, get a cab." He says, sound a tad embarrassed, "The cabbie is probably annoyed." I let out a small laugh and take Sherlock's hand into my own. We walk across the street and get inside our patient cab. I give him Sherlock's address and we are on our way in seconds.

"So, can I call you my boyfriend now?" I ask, wrapping my arms around Sherlock's waist.

"You can call me whatever you'd like, darling." he chuckles, placing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me in close so that I can rest my head on his shoulder, "Is that alright with you? Darling, I mean."

"It's perfect." I say, kissing his cheek. Sherlock turns his head slightly so that my lips land on the corner of his mouth. I nuzzle my head back between his neck and shoulder and smile: "I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you," he says, kissing the top of my head, "my darling, darling girl."

_**Phew! Done!**_

_**This is a long one, but I really wanted to get this story arch done. My next one will be Baskerville but that will be a one shot. If you have any suggestions of what you want to read please let me know.**_

_**Thanks as always!**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	6. Chapter 6: You Must Love Me

_You Must Love Me_

"A dog?"

"No, a hound."

"That's the same thing isn't it?"

"Yes, but who uses the word 'hound' nowadays, hmm? Its most intriguing."

"So your taking this Henry Knight's case just because he used the word 'hound' instead of dog."

"Correct. Henry Knight's father was mauled to death by a mysterious creature that apparently came from a highly talked about, yet immensely secretive, army base. This could open the door to a much bigger case, something far more interesting. It's fascinating, don't you see?"

"…I'm lost."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and plops down on top of my desk, making a right mess of my papers. He came into my office about an hour ago at his normal hour of visiting (conveniently my lunch break) and immediately told me that he and John were going to Dartmoor. Apparently some man had come by their flat this morning begging Sherlock to look into the death of his father. This man, Henry Knight, believes that a mutated dog killed his father…er, rather it was a hound that escaped from the Baskerville testing center in Devon. I had heard the story before, actually; I caught the documentary on Baskerville over the weekend, but thought nothing of it. I definitely didn't think that it was of any interest to Sherlock, but I guess I was wrong.

"Look, the details of the case don't matter right now," Sherlock goes on, taking my hands into his, "what does matter is that I will be leaving for a few days. Maybe even longer depending on how much I discover about Baskerville."

"Okay," I say, "and you felt the need to tell me that in person because…"

Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion: "Well, isn't that what I'm suppose to do? As your boyfriend, I mean: Aren't I suppose to tell you all about my comings and goings?"

"I guess, but you didn't have to come down in person." I say with a smile, "Although, I will admit, I'm not opposed to the pleasant surprise."

Sherlock blushes and rubs his thumbs over my knuckles: "Well, maybe I wanted to tell you I was leaving because you're so important to me."

"Sherlock Holmes, is this your way of saying that you'll miss me?" I tease, leaning in close so that I can rest my arms on his legs.

"Perhaps." Sherlock gives me a half mouth smirk then leans in close so that his lips lock with mine in a deep kiss.

We have been together for 3 months now and I've never been happier. Who would have guessed that the man I'd fall for would be the world's only consulting detective? True, I don't usually believe in love at first sight…that is until I met Sherlock. I fell head over heels for this man and it only made me happier when I discovered he felt the same way. We didn't come together in the usually way, but that doesn't matter. I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes and that's what's important.

"When do you leave?" I ask, when our lips finally part.

"Train leaves in about an hour and a half." He replies, standing up, "Although it will probably be about 15 minutes late; trains that run during this time usually are."

I glance down at my watch and then look back at him; "Then you better get going," I say, standing up with him then adjusting his scarf, "You have to pack and-"

"Already did." He says rather matter of factly.

"Book your ticket?"

"Yes."

"Grab a cab?"

"John's waiting out front in one."

"John's out…Sherlock, you left John to wait in a cab for an hour?" I ask, playfully hitting his chest, "That's rude."

"How is that rude? I told him I had to see you before we left and he gladly offered to wait in the cab," he says in his defense, "There's no need to get all fussy about it." Sherlock then wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me in as close as he possibly can. To my surprise, he starts to place soft kisses along my neck.

"Sherlock," I giggle, resting my hands on his chest, "what are you doing?"

"Loving you," he whispers, nuzzling his forehead against my own, "Do you not want me too, my darling, darling, girl?"

"Oh, quiet the opposite, Mr. Holmes. I encourage it." I whisper before we exchange another deep kiss. I've never been one to go on with public displays of affection, but with Sherlock I really don't care if anyone sees us. Of course, we have yet to make our relationship completely public: John knows and so does Mrs. Hudson, but that's it really. I told my mother and my roommate that I was seeing someone but I didn't go into full detail. It's sort of hard to explain to people who weren't there when we grew into this thing.

After a few more moments of kissing, Sherlock's phone dings in his coat pocket. Reluctantly, he pulls it out and checks the message.

"John?" I ask, even though I know that I'm right.

"Yes, apparently I need to get off you because we need to get a move on," he replies, showing me the message, "I don't understand what he means; I'm not on top of you."

"Sherlock, don't be silly," I say with a chuckle, "You know what he means."

"Do I?" he asks, furrowing his brow. I look at him in confusion for a moment but then I realize that he really doesn't know that John's just teasing. I guess it's not that surprising; I mean this is his first real relationship. I laugh at his naivety and place a small peck on his cheek:

"I'll explain it to you when you get back," I say, "Now go catch this dog, er hound…whatever it is."

"Will do," Sherlock says with a smile, "I love you."

"I love you too." I reply, "Be safe."

"I will."

"Text me when you get there?"

"Of course."

"And don't get into too much trouble."  
"I won't."

"Seriously, if there's some government conspiracy going on, then-"

"Elfie, are you going to keep mothering me, or can I just kiss you and be on my way?"

I blush a bright pink and let out a small giggle. Sherlock cups my face in his hands and we exchange another quick kiss.

"I love you," I say

"I love you too," he replies, "May I call you later tonight?"

"Of course," I say, "I'd like that."

Sherlock smiles as he tucks a stray hair behind my ear. He kisses my forehead then dashes out of my office, his coat blowing behind him. I lean in my doorway and watch him until he is completely out of sight; God, I miss him already.

'_Good grief, Elfie Marie,' _I tell myself, _'You are hopelessly in love with that man.'_

0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0

_Ring! Ring! Ring!_

I groan into my pillow and turn onto my side. Cautiously, I open my eyes to look at my alarm clock: 1:30am. Good Lord, who is calling me at this hour? I prop myself up on my elbows, reach over to my bedside table and grab the ringing annoyance. Allowing my eyes to adjust to the bright screen, I read over the caller ID:

_Sherlock Holmes_

Quickly, I unlock the screen and hit the answer button. He never calls, unless it's for a case. But he's on a case, why does he need to call me? This must be something else: something important.

"Hello?" I say, trying to hide my tiredness.

"Elfie, um, hello." He replies rather quickly "You still awake?"

"I am now."

"Good, good...good to hear. How are you?"  
"Sherlock, honey, it's one in the morning." I moan, running a hand through my messy hair, "I'm tired."

"Of course, how idiotic of me. You must be tired; you worked all day and were most likely curled up in bed just now. What a stupid question to ask…stupid, stupid." His voice is shaky and unsure. This is new; he usually sounds so confident and sure of the words he's saying. Now he sounds…scared?

I furrow my brow in confusion and sit up fully; "Is something wrong?" I ask, feeling a bit worried, "You sound…off."

"Off? Why would I be off? I'm fine, there's nothing wrong. I'm perfectly fine." He spits out, "I said I'd call you and now I have. Do you wish me to hang up?"

"Um, no, no. It's fine." I say with a yawn, "I just didn't expect you to call so late."

"I am sorry," he says, "I just need to talk with someone. John's…away at the moment and I'm alone. Besides, I wanted to hear your voice. I needed to."

"Sherlock, that's…that's sweet." I say, very much taken back, "A little out of the ordinary for you, I have to say, but sweet."

"Don't hang up, alright?"

"Sure," I say, lying back down, "What do you want to talk about? How's the case going?"

"I don't want to talk about the case," he suddenly spits out, "I want to talk about you. What did you do at work?"

"Um, okay, well-We got a new Ancient America exhibit."

"Good, and what of it?"

"Sherlock, I get the feeling you didn't call just to hear me talk about work."

Its quiet on his end and I would've thought he had hung up if it weren't for his heavy breathing through the receiver: "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He says in a low whisper, almost sounding like he's on the verge of tears, "Just…keep talking."

"Sherlock, what aren't you telling me?"

"…I saw it."

"Saw what, honey?"

"The hound. I saw it. It's real. It can't be real, I know that, but…I saw it."

I sit up fully becoming more interested in what he has to say. He sounds so unsure and frightened, like someone who has just woken up from a horrible nightmare. He saw the hound? No, that's impossible. It's not real; I can even figure that out. There are no such as gigantic, killer dogs.

"Elfie?" he asks, "Are…are you still there?"

"Yes, um, yeah I was just-Sherlock are you sure you saw it?" I ask, "I mean, it all seems-"

"Unreal? Elfie, I know that I sound crazy, but you must listen to me. I know what I saw-No, forget I said that. I _don't_ know what I saw which is why I'm at such a loss at this moment. You must believe me when I say that I am completely sane right now. But what I saw-whatever creature that was-made me question that sanity."  
"You're scaring me Sherlock." I say, pulling my knees in close to my chest, "What are you saying?"

"It was immense, Fee. Unlike any creature I have ever seen," he goes on; his voice is now harsh like he's telling a ghost story, "Like a wolf, but more muscular and…and its eyes, they were piercing and cold." Sherlock then lets out a nervous chuckle: "If you could see me right now, Ms. Stegerson, you wouldn't recognize me. A wreck, that's what I look like: A trembling, emotional wreck. Hard to believe isn't it? Me showing emotion! Stupid, stupid…"

As he's talking, I can't help but think he's not himself right now. Yes he's the love of my life, but his mental state has always been a mystery to me. One moment he is relaxed and thinking, and then in the blink of an eye he's stand offish and cold. To say the least, Sherlock is unpredictable. Before taking on this case, he was extremely on edge; apparently there weren't any cases coming in (or at least cases worth his time) and he's been bouncing off the walls with boredom…if that is such a thing. It is possible that he saw just a regular stray dog and, because he has such a need for excitement right now, he _thought_ he saw 'the hound'. I'm not saying he's crazy; I'm just afraid he's reached his limit.

"Sherlock," I say, gulping down my nerves "I think you're a bit worked up right now."

"Ha! That's what John said," he replies with a small chuckle, "I'm not surprised your thinking the same thing as him: You think I've finally lost it, haven't you?"

"No, honey, I don't." I say, rubbing the bridge of my nose, "Look, I your tired and stressed. What you saw, whatever it was, probably was just some figment of your imagination."

"A figment of my imagination?"

"Yes; you're tired and it's late. Maybe you need to rest, take it easy for a bit. Call me in the morning and we'll talk about all of this, okay? Clear your head of all of this and…"  
"Are you going to hang up?" he spits out, suddenly sounding worried and scared, "You…you can't."

"Sherlock, I have work tomorrow morning," I say in my defense, "I have to get up early. You know that I'd love to stay up and talk but I just can't."

"Elfie."

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Love you."

"Please don't leave me."

My heart drops down to my stomach.

For a moment there it sounded like he was crying? No, not Sherlock Holmes: not the king of 'no emotion'. He would never…would he?

"Sherlock?"

"Please, I know I sound childish right now," He goes on; his normally strong baritone voice cracking just ever so slightly, "But, darling, don't leave me. I can't be alone right now. Please. I…I need you."

My heart aches and I take in a deep breath. For as long as I've known Sherlock, I've come to realize that emotions are not apart of whom he is. He is a man driven by his mind and his brilliant skill to pick up on the smallest of details. Emotions, to him, are a distraction; they get in the way of his work and he has vowed to never let them cause an affect. He has, however, told me that I am his one exception to that rule:

"_Love has always been a misinterpreted distraction to me,"_ he had said, _"but now I see that it's true nature can only be experienced with one other person, you have shown me that."_

When he told me that, I knew that I had found the perfect man. But right now, listening to him speak on the verge of tears, begging me to stay on the line with him, has made me realize that I am completely in love with this man. He is the most human, human being I have ever had the pleasure to be with and for that reason I am in love with him.

"Fee? Fee, are you still there?" Sherlock says, breaking my train of thought.

"Yes, yes, I'm still here." I say, whipping my eyes on the sleeve of my pajama top, "I'm not going anywhere."

"If you don't want to stay on the line, I…I can accept that." He goes on, sounding ashamed, "You need your rest and-Maybe your right. Maybe I'm just imagining things and that…"  
"Sherlock, I'm not hanging up." I assure him, "You want me to stay, then I'll stay. I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

I hear him give off a sigh of relief and then take in a deep breath: "You are too good to me, Elfie Stegerson and I thank you for that," he says, sounding very relieved, "For a moment there I…I thought I was going to loose you."

"I'm not leaving you and…I promise you, I never will."

"I…I love you."

"I love you too."

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'_Internet Detective Solves Hell Hound Mystery.'_

'_What Happens to Baskerville now?'_

'_Who is Sherlock Holmes?'_

Seated on my bed, I chuckle at the headlines as I scroll down my email homepage; my boyfriend is making the news and the press have started to pick up on his uniqueness. Sherlock had solved this Dartmoor mystery and squashed any rumor of Baskerville's sketchy reputation in just a few days. He had called and filled me in on the details while he and John were on the train home:

The hound was just a rabid dog, let loose by it's previous owners to spark tourism. H.O.U.N.D. however, was the answer to the death of Henry Knight's father all those years ago: Chemical warfare program, it turns out and poor Mr. Knight had found out about it. He threatened to expose the plan and wound up dead because of it. Henry, unfortunately, witnessed the entire murder, which had lead to a downward mental spiral. Poor guy, I can't even imagine the pain he has felt over all of these years.

"Shame isn't it?" a familiar baritone voice says from my bedroom doorway, "What with no 'hell hound' tall tale floating around, Dartmoor tourism may in fact plummet."

I turn my head to see Sherlock, dressed in jeans and his white button up but still dawning that large coat, leaning in my doorway. He gives me a small smile and I smile right back.

"Really, Sherlock, why do you do that with your coat?" I tease, patting the spot next to me, inviting him to sit with me.

"Do what?" he asks, sitting down. I playfully flick his coat collar, which is fully propped up against his cheeks, and he just rolls his eyes: "Oh, God, not you as well." He says with a hint of annoyance, "Listen, I'm not trying to impress anyone, okay. My face get's cold just like any other persons hence the large collar. It has nothing to do with my cheekbones or-or appearing mysterious."

"Yeah okay but…well, do you have to act like you're a super villain every time you do it?"

"...Do I?"

"Yeah, just a bit."

"Oh…" He looks away in deep thought and I just laugh. "What?" he asks, turning back to me, "What's with the laugh? What's so funny?"

"Nothing, nothing." I say, nudging as close to him as possible, "It's just…I love you, Sherlock."

"And I love you, Elfie." He replies. We lean in close and exchange a kiss. Sherlock wraps his arms around me as our kiss deepens. I quickly respond in kind, nuzzling my hands in his mop of curls. Next thing I know, we are lying beside each other on my bed, exchanging the sweetest kisses either of us have ever experienced: "Oh God, I've missed you." He whispers when our lips part.

"I offered to come down," I say, resting my hands on his shoulders, "but you said that it wasn't necessary."

"It wasn't," he says, "I was fine. After that phone call, of course." He looks away, slightly embarrassed.

"Hey," I whisper, cupping his face in my hands, "There's nothing to be ashamed of, love. You were scared, it happens to everyone."

"Yeah, well, I'm not everyone, am I?" he says, wrapping his arms around my waist, "I've always been able to keep a level head about everything and maintain a level of calm in the most hectic of situations. When I called you, I...I wasn't myself. It was awful; it felt like every part of my mind was jumbled and confused. Emotions; I told you they get in the way of everything."

"Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes, you are a human being." I say, "You have emotions and feelings just like everyone else. You were afraid and that was new for you. It was an understandable reaction. Besides, based on what John told me, that dog was pretty terrifying."

"Only if you saw it through the drug induced fog, yes." Sherlock says with a small chuckle, "Project H.O.U.N.D. didn't dispose of all their equipment when it was disbanded. That's why Henry 'saw' his father being killed by a dog. The Hollow was full of the drug, had been for years. Did John tell you that I locked him a lab to test my theory?"  
"You did what?" I ask, sitting up slightly.

"Ah, well, I'll get him to tell you the story." He says with a wave of his hand, "Right now, I don't want to hear anymore talk about Baskerville or devilish dogs. Now, I just want to be with you."

"No case?" I ask in disbelief.

"Not one worth my time, no." he replies. Sherlock reaches up and strokes my cheek, lovingly. I kiss the heel of his hand and give him a small smile: God, I love this man.

"Take your big coat off and relax." I say rising up off the bed, "I was about to make some dinner. Hungry?"

"Surprisingly, yes." He says, untying his shoes.

I chuckle and head toward the door. Suddenly, a thought occurs to me: "Sherlock, how did you get into the apartment? Hattie's not here to let you in and only she and I have a key."

"I picked the lock," he says, nonchalantly, "You don't mind do you?"

"You could have just texted me and I'd let you in."

"Dull."

I let out a small laugh and turn back around to leave. He is so odd, but I don't care. Next time, though, he should just text me.

"Fee?" Sherlock says, sounding a bit like a child asking for their mother.

"Yes?" I ask, turning around to face him again. Sherlock kicks off his shoes and gets off the bed. He walks over to me and gently wraps his arms around my waist.

"Thank you for not hanging up." He says, gazing into my eyes.

I gaze right back into his perfect orbs and smile: "Your welcome, Mr. Holmes." I reply in a soft whisper, "You are very welcome."

_**Aww, fluff; I'm a sucker for it, what can I say?**_

_**So this is the last of the stories I had planned to tell in this prequel, but I am pleasantly surprised with the reaction it's gotten. If you guys want to read about anything else, please let me know. Thanks for all the favorites, follows and comments. This case is the last major one before "The Woman at His Side" so I guess you could saw that I've filled up that gap. But like I said, let me know if you want to read something else.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	7. Author's Note

_Hello,_

_For those of you who thought this was a new chapter…sorry._

_So I really don't have any new ideas for this story and am going to mark it as complete. I've pretty much filled in the major events leading up to 'The Woman at His Side' and 'I Won't See You Now Till I Surrender' which was the main point of this series. I really just wanted to take this moment to properly thank you all so much for reading this and showing interest. As I've stated before, this is just a hobby of mine and it brightens my day every time I see one of you lovely people leave a comment or a new follower has jumped on the wagon or a new favorite has added this to their notifications. _

_I also want to extend a huge thank you to those of you who have showed interest in my other stories. Seriously, it means a lot to me and the fact that some of you have PM'd me to personally let me know how much you've enjoyed really touches me. Thank you, thank you, and thank you!  
I do have one selfish thing to ask you all. If any of you lovelies are artists, would any of you be interested in illustrating Elfie and Sherlock for me? . I completely understand how much time and effort it takes to make art (trust me, one of my best girlfriends is an illustrator) but I guarantee that it wouldn't go underappreciated. My idea was to use it as the cover photo for this fic and possibly my others. I tried to do one myself but…lets just say I should stick to writing. I know that it is totally selfish and pretentious of me to ask, but I really would love it if any of you could. PM me if your interested and we'll go from there, I guess?_

_Any ways, thank you to all you wonderful, amazing, lovely, Elflock-ians-doesn't really have a ring to it, now does it? Oh well, I love you guys anyways!_

_Much Love and Many Thanks_

_XOXOXO_

_Ps: love the fact that that ship name was even created. ;)_


	8. Chapter 7: Marry Me a Little

_**So I know I said that I had completed this story, but I didn't know where else to fit this. It's fluff and nothing more. I hope you all enjoy. Plus I thought it would be nice little pick me up from 'I Won't See You Now Till I Surrender.'**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**So with out further ado…**_

_**Elfie and Sherlock's wedding for all of you who wanted it :)**_

_Marry Me a Little_

Heart racing.

Stomach churning.

Mind spinning.

Good God, I thought your supposed to feel like a million bucks on your wedding day. Why am I so nervous? I'm finally getting to marry the love of my life so I should be over the moon. Instead I feel like I'm going to be sick.

Two months ago, Sherlock had purposed to me. It was after a huge case that resulted in me loosing my best friend and Sherlock almost dying. God, I never want to think about that case ever again. It changed me for the better, but that doesn't mean it wasn't easy on my emotions. Any who, a week after that he had given me the ring: a flawless amethyst set between two small diamonds on a silver band. That's when it really sank in:

I was going to become Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

With some help from Mycroft, we were able to get through all the necessary paperwork and plan a small ceremony without attracting any attention from the press. The wedding would be held at the Cross-Keys Inn with only those closest to us in attendance. Sherlock handled all the details: booking the space, the honeymoon, everything. I was just told a time and date. I'm surprised that he took such an interest in planning our wedding; Sherlock Holmes and marriage are two things I never imagined would go hand in hand. Then again, the man is completely full of surprises.

I stare into my vanity mirror and try to recognize myself in the reflection before me. My hair is tightly pulled back in a low ponytail and it's not moving an inch do to the crazy amount of hairspray that has been applied. My skin looks so pristine and soft even under the light layer of make-up that I have put on. I pick up the blush brush and quickly even out the rosy tint on my cheeks. I look nothing like my usual self. That is a different woman staring back at me and I'm not entirely sure if I like her or not.

What am I doing? Of course I love Sherlock more than anything in the world and I cannot wait to spend the rest of my life with him, but this whole marriage thing is a bit over whelming. We were perfectly fine the way we were, so why change it? What if we end up being one of those couples that break up after marriage? I don't want to risk that. I can't even imagine that.

_Knock. Knock._

The soft knock at my door breaks my train of thought and I quickly get up and open it. Standing there, dressed in a red long sleeved, calf length dress and black heels, holding a pink package under one arm, is my mother. She is dawning that signature 'mother of the bride' smile and has her arms open to me. I gladly give her a tight hug.

"Sweetheart, you have no idea how hard it was to find this place." she says, "Did you purposely pick a place in the middle of nowhere?"

"Sherlock picked it," I reply, "The owners owed him a favor. It's quite a story, really."

"Your fiancé is just full of those, isn't he?" she says. When we finally part, she gives me a good look over as is always her way: "Oh Elfie Marie, your not even dressed." My mother points out as she walks inside, "Come on, sweetheart. Put your dress on."

"Mom," I say, closing the door and readjusting my robe tie, "I…I don't feel right."

"That's just the butterflies," she replies, picking up my dress from the bed, "Oh honey this is just a gorgeous dress! Where did you get it? You know, I always knew that you'd walk down in isle in something simple like this. You never were a ball gown type of girl."

"Mom…"

"Elfie, those shoes are just darling! Oh my God, they're pink! You never wear pink; oh it's a miracle. I feared you were going to wear those black boots you practically live in."

"Mom…"

"Oh listen to me, I'm judging. I promised you I'd stop that. I'm sorry, dear. Now, let's get you into…"

"Mom, I don't know if I can through with this."

My mom freezes and stares at me with wide eyes. For the first time in my life, I think I've just rendered her speechless.

"I…I mean, I'm scared." I go on, sitting back at the vanity, "Don't get me wrong, I love Sherlock and all, but…what if after we're married things change? What if he doesn't like me as a wife? What if it doesn't work out? Ugh, I don't even want to think about that." I rest my elbows on the vanity and cover my hands over my face. "This is too much. I don't know if it's really worth it."  
"Elfie Marie, stop talking like that this very instant." My mother quietly says, coming to my side, "Sherlock loves you more than anything and you love him back. You two are meant for each and there is not a force on this earth that can break you two apart. I-I never had a love like you and Sherlock have; not even with your father." She then sets a comforting hand on my shoulder: "You have nothing to fear, sweetheart. That man of yours isn't going anywhere."

I raise my head and we look at each. My mother and I have never really gotten along but for this moment…well we're actually having a moment. I know that she's right; I'm just over thinking it all. Sherlock won't leave me and I won't leave him. I love him and he loves me. I just need to calm down.

Surprising her as well as myself, I stand up and give my mom a hug. She holds me in return with a proud smile on her face. My mom then helps me slip into my dress and opens up the package she's brought with to reveal a beautiful white vale. She adjusts it on the top of my head with a sparkling pendent then slowly spins me to face her: "Oh Elfie Marie," she breathes out, placing a hand on her chest, "you look beautiful."

I gulp then nervously turn to look at myself in the mirror. If I couldn't recognize myself before as sure as hell don't now. The dress hugs my curves perfectly as the fabric flows down my legs. The vale that stops about mid-back brings a new light to my face and I look more like a young woman than just a girl in her late twenties. Above all, I look like a bride.

Tears start to develop in my eyes as my mom wraps her arms around my shoulders: "You're going to blow him away," she whispers in my ear and I let out a small giggle.

"Thank you," I say, "honestly. You didn't have to help me."

"Of course I did, sweetheart," she replies, "My baby girl's getting married." Just then there is a soft knock at the door. My mother gladly goes to answer it; she opens it a sliver and pokes her head out. "It's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, Sherlock." I hear her say and I immediately perk up.

Why is Sherlock here?

Is everything okay?

I hear the low mumbling of my fiancé's baritone voice but I can't make out what he's saying. My mother then turns to me and gives me a small nod before heading out in the hall. Okay, now I'm fully confused: what is going on? Seconds later, a familiar hand pops into the room from the sliver.

"Don't come out here," I hear Sherlock say, waving his hand about, "You stay on your side and I'll stay on mine."

I smile and take the Sherlock's hand into my own, remaining on my side of the door just as I'm instructed: "What are you doing?" I ask with a giggle, "You didn't scare my mother off did you?"

"No, I've only managed to get her to go wait with everyone else," he replies, "I wanted to see you, or rather speak with you since apparently I'm not allowed to lay eyes on you."  
"It's bad luck." I tease, "Besides, you couldn't wait 15 minutes? You should be at the ceremony space."

"As I just said, I needed to speak with you."

"About?"

"N-nothing really." He replies, sounding almost childish, "I…you're going to laugh at me."

"Try me," I say with a smile, "What's on your mind, love?"

Sherlock pauses for a moment and gives my hand a tight squeeze: "I'm scared, Fee." He finally says, "Isn't that stupid? Me: of all people. I am scared to get married. I was in my room thinking about all of this and…and I couldn't' help but wonder what it was all for. Please don't take that as an insult to you, my darling, because that's not I intend. I do want to marry you, more than anything, it's just I only wondered if...if getting married is what is best for us. We are perfect the way we are and I don't want to ruin that.

I realize that I shouldn't be telling you this, but…well, whenever I have my moments of second guessing myself-believe me, I do have them-talking to you always seems to bring me back down to Earth."

I take in a deep breath and squeeze his hand. He's just as scared about this as I am. If that's not a confirmation that this marriage is perfectly right, then I don't know what is.

"You want to know something," I say, trying my best to hide my on coming tears, "I was thinking the same exact thing."

"Really?" he asks

"Yes. I'm scared too, but…but I know that there is no reason to be. Because I love you and I always will. Think about all that we've gone through together, Sherlock. Marriage almost seems easy compared to what we've already faced. No matter what happens, we're going to get through it." I bring his hand to my lips and place a gentle kiss on his knuckles: "I can't wait to be your wife, Sherlock Holmes."

To my surprise, but not my displeasure, Sherlock opens the door all the way, wraps his arms around me and plants a deep kiss on my lips. I return the romantic gesture and wrap my arms around his neck. Every fear either of us may have had about this day is melted away. My anxious nerves are replaced by my undying love for this man. What was I thinking by saying I couldn't go through with this? I can go through anything as long as I have this man beside me and he knows that I will always be there for him as well.

Our lips finally part and Sherlock closes his eyes tight: "How stupid of me," he whispers, gently placing his forehead against my own, "to even think for a moment that I could go through with having you as my wife."

"Love makes us think stupid things," I reply, "Haven't you figured that out yet?"

He chuckles that deep baritone laugh that I love so much, then takes a small step back: "I didn't see anything," he says, eyes still shut as she slowly backs out the door again, "But, um, thank you for that. I'm…I'm going to go wait for you, now, like I'm supposed to. That is what I'm supposed to be doing right? Not bothering you with stupid emotions."

"Sherlock, you bastard, come here." I giggle, cupping his face in my hands. I plant another kiss on his lips and he returns the gesture, "I'll see you in 15." I whisper before playfully pushing him back then closing the door. I lean back against it and just laugh.

I'm getting married.

I'm getting married to Sherlock Holmes.

0o0o0o0o00o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Fifteen minutes pass and my mother returns to my room to tell me it's time to go. Adjusting my make-up one last time, I grab my bouquet of yellow roses and walk with her to the small ceremony space. It's set up in this little chapel, hidden by a cluster of trees, behind the Inn. We reach the doors and I take in a deep breath. John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Mycroft are huddled around Sherlock at the very end of the short isle, but they quickly turn around when they notice my mother and I enter.

My gaze immediately locks with my fiancé's. He is dressed in an all black suit and looking as dapper as ever. I'm very surprised that his usually unruly curls are slicked back, but it only adds to his already sharp features. His eyes are sparkling so much brighter then I have ever known them to. He looks happy, genuinely happy. My mom guides me to his side and once there, takes my bouquet then I take Sherlock's hands into my own.

"Worth the wait?" I whisper to him

"Very much so," he whispers back.

We both chuckle and step even closer together so that only a few inches are separating us. Everyone takes their seats in the first pew and things get underway. In all honesty, I don't pay any attention to the words the officiant is saying; I am way too lost in Sherlock's eyes. When it's time for me to say my vows, I almost miss it. "Sorry," I say, but then I repeat the appropriate words:

"I, Elfie, take you, Sherlock, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

Then it's Sherlock's turn and I can hear the struggle in his naturally strong baritone voice to keep from breaking:

"I, Sherlock, take you, Elfie, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

We slip our identical silver bands onto each other's ring fingers, both of us shaking from nerves. There are few more words for the officiant to say but then comes the best part:

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride."

Sherlock cups my face in his hands and we share the deepest, most passionate kiss either of us has ever shared. Our small gathering applauds for us and I can hear my mother and Mrs. Hudson begin to cry. All is right in the world and nothing could be better. I'm Mrs. Holmes and he is my husband. It's surreal and at the same time it's just as it should be. As our lips finally part, we nuzzle our foreheads together and just look at one another for the first time as husband and wife.

"I love you."

"I love you too, my darling, darling girl."

We exchange another quick kiss then turn our attention to our small gathering to receive everyone's 'congratulations' and 'so happy for you two'. Our arms remain wrapped around each other as if we just can't stand to let go. Even though people are speaking to us, we aren't really paying attention. Out minds are focused on each other. Sherlock and I have never been a clingy couple, but today we've made an exception. It is our wedding after all.

As we nuzzle our forehead together again, we hear the small snap of a camera. Sherlock sharply turns his head to John who is sheepishly holding a Polaroid camera in his hands. "I know you said no pictures, but come on, mate, it's your wedding day." He says, holding the still developing photo out to Sherlock, "You've got to have something to commemorate it."

"I only said no pictures because they could get in the wrong hands," Sherlock replies, snatching the photo back, "Knowing you, John, you could easily loose this. Who knows who will get it then?"

"Hey, Sherlock Holmes," I playful scold, "don't spoil this."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, sticks the photo in his jacket pocket, then holds me close again: "My apologizes, Mrs. Holmes." He whispers before we kiss again.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

That evening, after our guests have left and we are finally alone, my husband and I take refuge in our private honeymoon suite. It has a sort of warm, country cabin, type feel to it with its simple furnishings and all, but to be quite honest, we don't take much notice. The second we had entered; Sherlock has swooped me up into his arms and carried me to the bed. Let's just say we didn't waste anytime getting the honeymoon started.

"So, tell me, Mr. Holmes" I say a few hours later, "This is all a bit out of character for you; what's changed you?"

"Have I changed?" he asks, propping himself up on his elbows which causes the sheets to fall off of his bare chest, "I don't think I have."

"Oh really?" I say, curling up to his side, "Because the man I met a little over a year ago is not the man in front of me right now."

Sherlock smiles and wraps his arms around my waist: "Tell me about_ that_ man." He coos, kissing my forehead, "You seem to have taken a liking to him."

"Well he was very attractive, but sort of cocky," I tease, "He thought he was so cool with his big black coat and chiseled cheekbones. Not to mention he claimed to know everything; thought himself as a proper genius."

"Maybe he is a 'proper genius'." Sherlock says,

"Maybe," I giggle, "But he didn't know how to handle his own emotions, not for the life of him." Sherlock blushes a sort of soft pink and sheepishly looks away. "I got to know that man," I softly go on, stroking my husband's cheek, "and he turned out to be the most amazing individual I had ever had the pleasure of knowing. We went through some crazy times-fought, argued, etc. But all didn't matter: He's my best friend and I love him, more than anything."

Our eyes meet again and we move to fill up the small gap between us. "I never thought you'd stay with me," Sherlock whispers, stroking my cheek, "and by all means, you should have left me long ago. Today, you have made me the happist man alive by becoming my wife. I never saw myself getting married, but I am so glad you've changed my mind.

I'm…I'm not a perfect person, Elfie, nor have I ever tried to be. But you have changed that for me. I promise you, I will do everything I can to take care of you. I love you and you are my world. All I ask is that you never stop caring for me. It's selfish, I know, but…I can't imagine what I'd do if I didn't have you."

"Sherlock," I breathe out, rubbing my hands up and down his back, "I'm not going anywhere, not ever. I'm always going to love you; nothing will change that."

Sherlock places a hand on the small of my lower back and tangles the other in my messy hair. I hold him as close as I can and nuzzle my forehead against his. My heart is all a flutter and time itself seems to stop. We exchange passionate kisses on the lips over and over again. Right now life is perfect and it always will be, just as long as I have him at my side.

"I love you Sherlock Holmes." I whisper, before we slip under the covers again,

"I love you more, Elfie…Holmes." He replies.


End file.
